


Harry Potter and the Obnoxious Heirloom

by twistedmiracle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Complete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedmiracle/pseuds/twistedmiracle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry’s Gringott’s vault is a mess, and frankly so is his life. Hermione is pretty sure she knows how to fix his life, but who is going to fix his obnoxious heirloom? Would people <i>please</i> stop recommending Draco Malfoy? Please?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fabulous HDS-Beltane fest and community!
> 
> **Rating:** PG-13 or maybe light R 
> 
> **Warnings:** No explicit sex, but a bit of strong language.
> 
> **Story notes:** This fic contains rampant homosexuality, bad clothing choices, strange magical items and a lot of weird, dead, OC relatives.
> 
> **Betaed by:** luci0logy and claret24.
> 
> **Author's Note:** Once upon a time, some of Harry’s ancestors were kind of crazy. Also, some of Harry’s ancestors were kind of awesome. (Mostly these were the same ancestors.)

Prologue. 

“Oh, I say Lacerta. Not at all!” Verena sounded nearly annoyed, now.

They were strolling through a magnificent garden, avoiding the vicious gossip, gently mannered dancing and badly catered “delicacies” at a wedding reception that was too dull to be borne.

“No, my dear Verena, it is your family that shall lose this bet! I feel it clearly.” Lacerta, on the other hand, sounded almost bored.

You mightn’t have guessed it from their pointed comments, use of formal names, and dark teasing, but they were the fastest of friends.

“Well,” Verena said dryly, finishing her sherry and carelessly dropping the glass into a large bush, “whatever shall we bet, then? Seeing as we are both so terribly, terribly sure that our own will do us right, and first!”

“I know just the thing,” Lacerta said. “I have this lovely little silver baby set I picked up on a whim the other day at Seolfors….”

Behind them a House Elf plucked the empty glass from the bush and vanished.

Chapter One. 

Harry happened to be staring moodily out the window as he ate his crisps, so he recognized Thelonius right away. Thelonius had been Harry’s last present to Ginny, after all. A large, handsome Eagle owl, Thelonius was nonetheless shockingly clumsy. Something neither Ginny nor Harry had noticed when they picked him out together at Eeylops.

Harry rushed to the window, barely getting it open before Thelonius could careen into the glass.

“There there, boy,” Harry murmured as he helped the owl onto Caversham’s perch next to the window. Then Harry closed it tight. It was cold outside today. Cold enough to bring a chill to the room in just the few moments needed to let in an owl. Harry cast a warming charm before attempting to get Thelonius to give over the letter.

Scratch that, the invitation.

The heavy parchment square was clamped between the talons of Thelonius’ left foot, and Harry wasn’t sure how to get it from him without damaging it any further. But with the combined lures of half Harry’s last slice of banana bread and a head rub, Harry managed it. “Good enough,” Harry said, when the parchment came away scrunched, but not torn. Harry placed it on his desk.

“I’ve been expecting this,” Harry told Thelonius, who swiveled his head nearly all the way round to look Harry in the eye. “From Molly, yes?” he asked, and Thelonius seemed to agree before hooting softly toward the window.

“Sure, boy,” Harry said, opening the window for the owl. Thelonius whacked a foot into the window jamb on his way out, and Harry could only shake his head. There were a lot of things he and Ginny hadn’t managed to notice, once upon a time.

Harry sat at his small wooden desk to read the invitation. First he attempted to spread the crumpled parchment out with his fingers, but he soon gave up. “ _Reparo_ ,” he cast at it, and only then could he remove it from the envelope.

“Knew this was coming eventually,” he said with a wistful tone, looking it over. The front was quite impressive, sporting a fancified version of Ginny’s best handwriting.

__

_Septimus Nathan Claythe-Weasley_  
Born 17 January, 2001  
Seven pounds, fourteen ounces  
Twenty one inches long 

_Ginny and Brigit’s_  
baby is here  
Let's welcome wee Septimus  
and give a huge cheer! 

_You’re invited!_  
Let’s welcome little Septimus to the world and to his new family!  
The Burrow  
Sunday January 28, 2001  
Three o’clock until the new Mums are too tired to entertain any longer!  


The back, however, was in Molly’s real, unspelled handwriting, and seemed like a personal message, just for Harry.

_Come hungry, son! I’m cooking all your favourites!  
Love, Molly_

Sighing through a smile, Harry stood up as he opened a drawer in his desk. “There’s my Gringotts key,” he murmured to himself, then headed downstairs to get his warmest traveling cloak. Maybe he’d walk.

. . . . . . . . .

Kharst, the goblin that brought Harry down to his vault, was the burliest, fiercest goblin Harry had ever seen.

Harry’d formally apologized for the “dragon thing” some years back. He’d even paid a hefty restitution; but he wasn’t sure the goblins would ever fully let it go. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he could really blame them.

“Doubt I’ll be long,” he told Kharst as he got out of the little cart. The goblin just crossed his meaty arms.

Harry opened the vault door and hurried in, nearly tripping over a short pile of boxes in front of the door. The place was a terrible mess, Harry knew. He felt slightly guilty for never having done anything about the chaos, but…

“ _Accio_ baby gift!” he attempted, and happily, something rose from the jumble immediately. Pulling it from the air, he saw a tarnished silver rattle. He rattled it to be sure, and it made a pleasant chiming noise.

Which continued.

Harry stared at the rattle, but even though he’d stopped moving it, it had yet to stop making that sound. Turning it over, Harry looked for anything that might help him see why the rattle was so noisy, but all he saw were the cute little tarnished silver ducks that decorated the thing. And all he could hear was that chiming. Was it louder now? “ _Finite_!” he tried, but the rattle continued to sound. “ _Silencio_!” Still no change. He put it down on an old piece of wooden furniture, but the noise just continued, long after he stopped moving it.

“Huh,” Harry muttered under his breath. “Better see if Bill can figure out what’s up with this thing.”

Looking around the vault, feeling a bit baffled by the still-chiming toy, Harry saw only piles of clutter. It filled the vault: on the floor, on the furniture, stacked against the walls. Feeling like it was probably too much to ask for, and yet that it would be dumb not to at least try, he again held his wand up and cast “ _Accio_ baby gift!” This time a tarnished silver circlet, nearly large enough to wear as a bracelet and far more tarnished than the rattle, pulled itself free from a pile and came sailing gently through the air. Harry caught it in one hand. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was also decorated with cute little ducks, so whatever it was, it probably was for babies. “Good enough,” he muttered to himself, and slipped one silver item into each robe pocket before heading towards Kharst and the cart.

. . . . . . . . .

On his way home, Harry stopped in at an antique shop he knew well that Ginny also liked. “Mrs Hatchern,” he said when the proprietor looked up from her knitting.

“Harry!” she said, sounding happy to see him. Harry couldn’t help but smile back. Little old witches were among his favourites. Especially the grandmotherly ones. And Mrs Hatchern was extremely grandmotherly. “Have a biscuit!” she encouraged, and Harry took one from the plate next to her. She baked every day and Harry thought it surely helped to keep her customers returning.

“Can you give me a hand with these things?” Harry said after he swallowed his first bite of her biscuit. (Pumpkin and chocolate drop. Very good.) He pulled the rattle and bracelet from his pockets and put them on the counter. Out of the muffling fabric, the rattle was rather loud again. Luckily, the sound wasn’t exactly unpleasant, just… unending.

Mrs Hatchern picked up the rattle first. “How long has it been chiming?” She asked, turning it in her hands.

“About ten or fifteen minutes?” Harry suggested. “Since I first rattled it.”

“I doubt I’ll be able to explain that,” Mrs Hatchern said, shaking her head. Regret was clear in her voice. “I’m no good with spells on objects, more’s the pity. It would do me a right bit of good in this business.” She winked at Harry, then looked back at the silver toys, picking up the bracelet. “I can certainly polish them, though! Look at this lovely matching set. Are these for Ginny’s new baby boy?”

“Well, this one is,” Harry said, pointing at the circlet. “But this rattle needs to shut up before I’d give it to the baby! And I’d be very grateful if you cleaned them both up. How much would that cost?”

“For Ginny’s baby? Not a thing!” Mrs Hatchern said reprovingly. Then she smiled and touched the silver ring with her wand. A silver glow spread from her wand tip all around the circlet until the whole thing glowed with brightness and light. Then she pulled her wand away and did the same for the rattle. Polished to a high gloss, the little silver ducky toys looked quite lovely, but the rattle was still chiming, and Harry shook his head as he put it in a pocket to muffle it.

“Er, Mrs Hatchern,” he said, feeling stupid but needing to know, “what is this thing?” He held up the circlet.

She took it in one hand and ran a fingertip around the edge. Then she gave him an indulgent smile. “It’s an old fashioned teething ring, dear boy. For when the baby starts to cut teeth. Silver is a good choice, since it’s easy as pie to get it nice and cold. Good on ouchy little gums. Also, it’s easy to clean. These days they are often… _plastic_.” She whispered the word as though it were foul.

“It’s a very fine gift, even if you can’t fix the rattle and you have to give them the teething ring all by itself. Quality craftsmanship, and the silver is of a very high grade. This silversmithing mark here?” she pointed at a mark Harry could barely see. “That tells me who made it, and narrows how old it is. It was smithed right here in London, at a small family owned shop: Seolfors. I’ve seen a few of their things over the years and they always hold up well. In their heyday they were almost exclusively a pureblood shop. This particular piece would have to be between one and two hundred years old, because of the style of the mark. At any rate, it’s a lovely present. Very good choice. Where did you get it?”

“The family vault. Potter family,” he specified. Mrs Hatchern had helped him with the occasional bizarre, valuable, disturbing or ugly item he’d found in Sirius’ old house, so she knew well that he had access to two family vaults.

“Well, Seolfors is the sort of place both the Potters and Blacks would have shopped for good silver, I am confident in that,” she said, frowning toward his pocket. “But I’m glad it’s a Potter heirloom, not Black. That, at least, makes me think the incessant chiming isn’t… nefarious.” She gave him a slightly uncomfortable look, as though he might be offended.

Instead, Harry laughed. He took the teething ring and put it in his other pocket. “I quite agree,” he said, and gave her a huge smile. “You never know what Sirius’ mother might have been up to.”

Waving as he walked out, Harry wondered, however. He still didn’t know exactly how old these items were, even after Mrs Hatchern had narrowed it down. A hundred years was a long time. What did he really know about relatives that had been dead for generations, even if they _were_ Potters?


	2. Two

Chapter two.

By the time Harry got home, the rattle was heating up in his pocket. “Crap,” he said, nearly burning his hand on it. He wrapped his hand in an old linen tea towel and took the rattle out of his pocket.

That evening he thought to check on it again, and was frightened to realize that it had become hot enough that it seemed to be singeing the tea towel in a spot or two. He put it in a large glass of water and went to bed, determined not to wait until the party to ask Bill about the damn thing.

. . . . . . . . .

“Bill!”

Bill looked up from his work table with a frown of concentration. The magnifying monocle he was wearing in his right eye fell from his face when he smiled and waved hello. It, and the chain that held it, bounced once on Bill’s chest.

“Harry! Nice to see you, but it’s rather a surprise to have you visit me at work?”

“It’s business, frankly,” Harry said, pulling the rattle from his pocket. He’d found a way to seal it into a cylinder of icy water while he traveled, and this not only kept it from setting anything on fire, it also muffled the chiming almost into silence. So when he pulled the silver rattle from the cold water, Bill frowned at the noise.

“Careful,” Harry said dolefully. “It gets damn hot. Quickly.” Bill pointed at a spot on his work table and Harry put the rattle down.

Nodding, Bill pointed his wand at the rattle, and muttered a list of spells in swift succession, but his frown only deepened.

“What the hell is this thing?” Bill finally asked, and Harry explained how he’d obtained it, and decided to bring it in.

“Potter vaults, huh? Not Black?”

Harry nodded, trying to be reassured by the assumption everyone was making about the difference.

“Well, I can admit, it has me a bit stumped.” Bill scratched contemplatively at a scar on his left cheek. “My first response, based on what I _didn’t_ just learn from any of my favorite diagnostics, is that it isn’t a curse. I’ll admit, it certainly looks and acts like one, but… well, it’s no curse I recognize.” Bill turned and looked behind him, where a witch stood at a similar table, casting spells at a tiny turtle that seemed to be made of marble. “Melisende,” he called toward her, “Have you got a minute?”

She looked up, and Harry was struck by how tall and thin and black she was. She made him think of trees. She smiled at them and walked over. “Wotcher.” She said it brusquely, and Harry swallowed, remembering Tonks.

“Can you detect a curse on this rattle?” Bill said. “It’s loud and hot, but I’m not getting a curse signature at all, recognizable or unrecognizable. It’s like it’s completely different magic.”

Melisende looked at the rattle carefully, then reached out to touch it with just the pad of her pointer finger.

“Ss’hot awright,” she agreed, and began to cast rapidly. Her spells sounded almost Greek to Harry, but mostly what he saw was a Curse Breaker who also had no answers. After a long minute or two of casting, Melisende put hands on her hips and allowed a look of annoyance to pass swiftly over her face.

“You ‘Arry?” she asked him, and Harry nodded. They shook hands quickly. “So yeah,” she said, sounding unhappy. “Can’t get a bloody thing offit neither. No damn clue for you. Sorry!”

“Thanks so much for trying, anyway,” Harry said, feeling frustrated. “Any idea what I should do now?”

“Yeah!” Melisende said, brightening. “Ss’not a curse, I’m confident a’that. Bill, too. That means it’s _for sure_ not a curse. And when you got a magical object thas misbehavin’ but not cursed, the one to see is definitely Draco Malfoy.”

Surprised, Harry looked at Bill, but Bill was nodding calmly. “She’s right. He’s a genius with distressed magical objects. He started with furniture, but in the last year or so he’s really branched out. He’s starting to make quite the name for himself.”

Harry snorted, and Bill laughed.

“Yeah, I guess he had ‘quite the name’ for himself from before. I’ll give you that! But now he has a new reputation. Professionals, like Melisende and me, we’re really coming to respect him. He’s managing to fill in a serious gap. Not all magical misbehavior is due to curses. Not by a long shot. We Curse Breakers have our niche, but we often can’t help your general witch and wizard Joe Public, you know?”

Harry looked at the steaming, chiming rattle, and nodded slowly. He spelled the water in the cylinder back to nearly ice, and levitated the rattle back inside before sealing it closed.

“I appreciate the help,” he finally told Bill and Melisende, and _Apparated_ home, unwilling to consider their advice any further.


	3. Three

Chapter three. 

Harry left the rattling, boiling mess at home, but the silver teething ring he wrapped nicely, in a pretty box, with a bow and a card. “For little Septimus and both his Mums, he can chew this teething ring to ease his gums! Love, Harry.”

It was cheesy, but Brigit loved rhymes, even bad ones. Ginny would groan at him, he knew, but her wife would be happy, and – even if he wouldn’t admit it to anyone but himself – Harry still felt a bit weird about Brigit. He often ended up deferring to her. She was older than him. Older enough that some people thought she was too old for Ginny. But Molly and Arthur approved, so Harry did too. He figured they were good people to take these sorts of cues from. And not just because in this case, it was their daughter.

Harry straightened the collar of his blue polo shirt and then slipped a blue jumper on over it. He couldn’t remember whether or not Hermione thought these two tops matched, and he hoped she wouldn’t frown at him when he came out of the Floo. But seriously, blue was blue, right? How could a blue shirt not match a blue jumper? Especially when denims, which were blue, matched everything. Even not-blue things! Harry was pretty sure women made this stuff up. Although why they would, he couldn’t imagine. But he hated when Hermione criticized him, so he tried not to mess up his clothes too much. He couldn’t win though, because now she complained that he only wore blue and white clothes.

Trying not to dwell on the clothing related frown he was hoping not to incur from Hermione, Harry picked up the box and _Flooed_ to The Burrow. It would be good to see Ron again.

. . . . . . . . .

“You gave them a lovely gift, Harry,” Hermione said quietly as the party wound down. “Where did you find it?”

“Potter vault,” Harry said simply, sipping his hot cocoa and stretching his feet toward the fire Arthur and Percy had laboriously built while the mothers had opened gifts and cooed over things like snowman-covered sleepsuits and little stuffed hippogryffs.

Harry had hovered near the edge for a while, concerned that his might be the umpteenth teething ring, or that Brigit or Ginny wouldn’t like his gift, but once they had opened it, praised the silver and cooed over the duckies, Harry had snuck into the kitchen for hot cocoa. He was on his third mug of it now. Molly seemed to add something slyly spicy to it that Harry couldn’t place, but he liked it very much.

“Actually,” Harry said abruptly, turning to Hermione, “that reminds me. When I went to the vault the first baby present I found was a rattle, but there’s something wrong with it. Bill and his colleague, uh… ” Harry snapped his fingers, trying to remember.

“Melisende?” Hermione said with an amused smile.

“Yeah,” Harry said, relieved not to have to try to recall it anymore, “Melisende. Anyway, they’re both sure that the rattle isn’t cursed, so they can’t fix it. You want to come over and give it a look?”

“Sure, Harry,” Hermione said, smiling more generously now. “I’d be happy to!”

. . . . . . . . .

They made their way from the party slowly, saying goodbye to everyone, hugging nearly everyone at least once, and – in Harry’s case – finishing a fourth mug of cocoa. Then they Flooed back to Grimmauld Place, first Harry, then Hermione.

“I had to seal it into a container of icy water,” Harry explained as he led Hermione up to his office. “Even so, I have to re-spell the water back to icy around twice a day. This thing has gone crazy.”

Opening the office door, Harry peered in, suddenly fearful that yet another terrible development might have occurred to the rattle, but he was relieved to see that everything looked – and sounded – exactly as he had left it.

Hermione walked over to Harry’s desk and put out a hand to pick up the cylinder, but stopped to look at Harry with a question in her eyes.

“It should be safe to pick that up,” Harry said, hoping he was right. Hermione picked up the cylinder and Harry showed her how to remove the rattle. As always, it was far louder out of the water, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t any louder than it had been that morning or the day before.

“Oh,” she said sadly, “it matches the silver teething ring. They’re a set. You could have given them both.” She turned it in her hands, then took out her wand and tried a spell Harry thought Melisende had tried.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Mrs Hatchern said as much. I’d love to give them both, but right now it would burn the baby’s hands. Hardly a nice present.”

“Yeah,” Hermione said, sounding distracted. She cast another spell Harry didn’t know, then waited expectantly. Nothing happened as far as Harry could tell, and indeed, Hermione soon frowned and moved the rattle to her other hand. Assuming it was heating up again, Harry spelled the water back nearly to ice and crossed his arms in frustration.

“Bill and Melisende say I need to ask Malfoy’s advice,” he told her, feeling defensive and off balance just saying it.

“Really?” Hermione said, her eyebrows up high. She put the rattle back in the frigid water and replaced the lid. “Why on earth would you go to Malfoy?”

Harry sat on the couch and looked at his feet. “They say he’s the new go-to guy for messed up magical stuff that’s broken, but not cursed.”

“Huh,” Hermione said slowly, and sat next to Harry. He was glad he’d tidied up this morning. He’d thought he might ask Hermione over for help, though, so he’d prepared a little.

“Malfoy. An expert. I guess he did fix that, uh, cabinet.” She sounded uncomfortable.

“The cabinet that let in the werewolf that mauled Bill’s face? Yeah. I guess he did.” Harry scuffed at the rug with the toe of his right trainer. “Of course, Bill knows that better than we do, and he’s the one telling me to call on the bloke.”

“Well,” Hermione said, tucking a foot under her bum like a housecat, “that’s true.” She sounded thoughtful. “It’s a pity you—”

Harry interrupted. “Don’t say it, Hermione.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said. She took his hand tightly for a moment, then relaxed her grip a bit. “I know better than to nag you.”

Harry snorted. Just the once, but loud enough.

Hermione laughed. “All right,” she said, smiling, “point taken. Let’s say I _now_ know better than to nag you. You’ll find the right profession, I’m confident of it. Besides,” she said with a sly grin, “even I knew you didn’t belong with the Aurors.”

Gawping, Harry spluttered his indignation and reminded himself that it wasn’t ok to hit friends. “What?” He finally managed.

Hermione laughed. “Ok, you got me, I didn’t exactly say that before you joined the DMLE. But that was before I realized just how much the Aurors are a part of the Ministry. Kingsley and Tonks and Moody always seemed so independent. You know I’d been saying for ages that I really didn’t think you belonged in the Ministry.” She shuddered.

Harry deflated a bit. The first eighteen months of Auror training had actually been incredible. He’d awakened every day nearly vibrating with eagerness to Floo off to the training center near Yorkshire. He’d been treated like everyone else by ancient teachers who behaved like they had no idea who he was. He had learned enormous numbers of spells, practiced stealth and defensive techniques, and gained appreciable physical strength. He, Ron, Neville and Cho had all been given at least a slight pass to get in, but once there it had been nothing but a rigorous, well-crafted curriculum and plenty of opportunities to shine. They had all proven themselves admirably, and left the first half of training with confidence and pride.

Then he’d “graduated” to the second kind of training, a type of internship which took place under senior Aurors. In the Ministry building. Surrounded by Ministry types. Following Ministry rules, policies, doctrines, directives and unwritten codes. Trying to ignore Ministry gossip and live above a seemingly constant undercurrent of political manipulations. _That_ he’d managed to stick with for just over two more months until finally, completely dejected, he and Neville had dropped out. And Hermione, he could admit, had been nagging him to do it for most of those weeks.

“But you were quite sure I’d make a terrific Healer,” he couldn’t help but say, teasing her.

“Who knew potions were such an integral part of Healing?” Hermione said with a completely straight face, and then they both began to giggle.

. . . . . . . . .

Somehow, Harry felt a good deal better as he said goodbye to Hermione. They’d spent a couple of hours together after looking at the rattle. Nothing important; they’d watched a bit of bad telly, ate some junk food, had a lot of tea, and not said another word about the rattle or Harry’s meandering and stalled “career.”

But as Hermione had stepped into his doorway to leave, she’d held the doorknob in her hand and told him not to contact Malfoy quite yet. “I still don’t trust him,” she’d said, looking guilty and fierce. “I’ll see why Bill does. Because surely there’s someone a little less complicated for you to ask about that rattle.” Then she nodded once, firmly, and opened the door. Harry watched until the Knight Bus vanished with her, and then closed the door. Yes, he thought, surely there was someone better to help him with the rattle than _Malfoy_.


	4. Four

Chapter Four. 

“Sorry Harry, that’s all I’ve got,” George said, turning the loud rattle around in his hands. “Old, grumpy magic. Probably wants something? Don’t know anything else about it, but definitely feels old and grumpy. That much is pretty clear.”

“Damn,” Harry said. “Hermione really thought you’d be able to help.”

“Well,” George said, smiling wryly with half his mouth, “while it’s always nice to hear that Hermione thinks highly of me; no, I still can’t fix the rattle, or even tell you what’s wrong with it.”

George paused. He put the rattle down and shook his head, then looked out the window, blushing a bit. “What did Hermione say about me, exactly?”

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling uncomfortable. “She owled. Also, no way. We are _not_ going there, George.” He took a step back from George, leaving the rattle on the table to fill the workroom with its now highly annoying buzz.

George crossed his arms and leaned a hip against his work table, ignoring the rattle to stare at Harry with a frown. “And why the hell not?”

“Because she and Ron only broke up three months ago and she thinks you’re a frivolous bloke who does frivolous things.”

George looked mutinous for a moment so Harry pushed harder. “Except when she thinks your frivolous things become horribly destructive things. Peruvian darkness powder?”

“Oh,” George said, visibly deflating. “She said that, did she?”

Ignoring the question, Harry stepped back and put a hand on George’s arm. “Give it a year, will you? She was nearly your sister-in-law. And talk to Ron about it, when you can.”

“I,” George paused. “I should, shouldn’t I? He’s not a little boy anymore.”

“None of us are,” Harry muttered sadly, far more for himself than to George. “Thanks for taking a look at the rattle,” he said, moving to put it back in the ice water.

“Oh, right,” George said. “Well, even if I can’t help you, at least I can tell you who to try next, right? You want… I know this might sound strange, but trust me. You need Malfoy.”

“Really?” Harry said, feeling defeated by the inevitable. “Malfoy? Did Bill tell you that?”

“Oh,” George said, looking surprised for a brief second. “Bill knows about Malfoy’s work, too?”

“Merlin,” Harry said. “Anyway, Malfoy?”

“Yeah,” George said, looking sympathetic. He helped Harry by refastening the top on the rattle’s cylinder. “It took me a while to believe it, but… yeah. He’s found a business niche no one else is in, and he’s really become the expert. A lot of people have come round to trusting him because they didn’t have anyone else to ask and then… he fixed their problem.”

Harry put the cylinder back into his robe pocket. “I’ll think about it,” he groused, and Flooed home to read the book about potential careers that Arthur had slipped into his hand before he’d left the party for baby Septimus.

. . . . . . . . .

“I must insist that you call me Minerva,” Headmistress McGonagall said as she poured Harry a cup of tea.

Harry tried not to squirm in his chair. “I… I can try? I know I should, but it makes me feel so… disobedient. Like you’re going to take house points if I do. Or give me detention.” He giggled uncomfortably.

“Harry,” she smiled at him warmly. “You left Hogwarts some years ago now. Call me Minerva. Would you rather feel disobedient, or make me feel old?”

Harry laughed a little. “Okay, Minerva. How’s that?” Feeling unsettled, he picked up his teacup to cover his mouth. The tea was perfect.

“Positively lovely!” She smiled. “Now, you said you had an heirloom you needed to show me?”

Harry took the rattle from his pocket, carefully removing it from its cylinder of cold water to show her. “It isn’t just noisy,” he said quietly. “It really heats up after a bit.” He spelled the water back as cold as he could and watched as the headmistress looked over the rattle and cast a spell or two.

“It most certainly is not a botched transfiguration, Harry,” she said, frowning. “What made you think it was?”

Harry scowled a little and put his tea cup down. “Nothing, honestly. It isn’t that I thought it _was_ a botched transfiguration. It’s more that I don’t know what is causing this and no one else seems to, either.”

“No one?” The headmistress sipped her own tea and picked the rattle back up. It was embarrassingly loud in the tidy space. “Have you shown it to young Mr Malfoy?” She put it down between them, and Harry could feel it subtly vibrating her heavy wooden desk.

“Er, no?” Harry said, uncomfortable again. “Is he really…” Harry didn’t know how to politely finish the sentence. He put the rattle back into the cylinder for something else to do instead. At least it made it almost quiet.

“Is he really what?” she finally said after his pause stretched out too far.

“Safe?” Harry finally said quietly.

Knitting her brow, the headmistress put her hands on her desk and looked Harry in the eye for a very long, very uncomfortable set of heartbeats. Finally, she smiled sadly. “Harry, I know you and Draco Malfoy have had years of unpleasant history. You were nasty to one another. You hurt one another physically and emotionally. There were insults and fights and detentions. And yes, I know quite well that young Malfoy was on the wrong side of the War and made terrible mistakes. But since the War ended, Draco has worked hard to change. His father is in prison, he and his mother paid enormous fines. You, I will mention, testified in court for both of them.” She gave him a look of approval and nodded at him once.

“I remember,” Harry said, feeling confusion and pride.

“Why did you?” she asked.

Harry had been asked this question several times before, but rarely by someone he respected as much as he respected Minerva McGonagall. He paused to think. He wanted to answer her properly. Harry remembered the days right after the War. He remembered his exhaustion, his feelings of disbelief that it was finally over, and then the feeling of fury he’d had when Malfoy and his Mum had been arrested. “They helped us,” he remembered saying to Ron and Hermione in a white rage. “They helped me. I couldn’t have ended Voldemort without both of them.”

And so he had marched himself to Kingsley. He had demanded a chance to testify. He had found himself in front of the Wizengamot within minutes. Neither Malfoy or his Mum were even _there_. In retrospect Harry was just a little embarrassed by the way he had been allowed to interrupt everything. But it had been in such a good cause. Not for him, but for justice. For truth. For fairness. He had poured out his story to the Wizengamot, not looking at them, pacing back and forth, only half caring how much sense he made. He’d told the story in confusing order, backtracking here and there when he realized he’d missed important details. He’d attempted to keep it to just Malfoy and his Mum, to explain why they didn’t deserve to go to prison, to convince the Wizengamot of that in particular. Nonetheless, he’d accidentally told them a lot of the rest. It had poured out of him like a waterfall of confession.

Malfoy and his Mum had been levied two large fines and sent home the next morning.

Harry stood and walked to the window. From here he could see snow covered fields, trees. Much of the Forbidden Forest. The shore of the Black Lake. He couldn’t quite remember if that made sense. Did the Head have magical windows that showed all the grounds? He wouldn’t put it past the castle to do that.

He put his hands on the warm stone sill and looked at the snow.

“I testified for them because they helped me. I testified for them because, even before I started with the Aurors, I knew – or feared, anyway – that without my help, they would be treated unjustly. The Muggle world… it has plenty of failures, but in _Muggle_ England, they at least _try_ to be fair. They try to have courts that actually make justice. Not… not… vendettas.”

He turned his head to look at McGonagall, but she said nothing. She simply looked at him, waiting calmly. Harry turned back toward the window.

“Do you know why I left the Aurors?” he asked, with no concept of how she might respond.

“I did read the article Skeeter published the day you quit,” she said, somewhat diplomatically. “Was she correct?”

“Oddly enough,” Harry said, “she was basically spot on. Neville and I went to a street corner to attempt to arrest a petty thief, and he got away because we were quickly surrounded by a group of… fans.”

Minerva clucked lightly.

“It was worse, though. It turns out that we’d been set up. Both of us had senior partners. We were still in training, still not really Aurors at all. And they, the seniors. They had… they had tipped off Skeeter as they were leaving the building. And that’s why there was a crowd there and that’s why the thief got away. Skeeter paid them for the information, and so did several of the people who managed to get photos of Neville and I in our training uniforms.” Harry balled his fists. “I’ve heard those photos are worth a fortune now, since Neville and I both quit the Aurors almost immediately after we found out what had really happened. They’re ‘collector’s items’.”

Harry turned and sat on the sill. “They weren’t fired. They weren’t even really punished much. Everyone else knew that Neville and Ron and Cho and I… we were all allowed in there for something other than tracking down dark wizards. Bad guys. That’s why we all dropped out. Well, three of us. Cho wasn’t really famous enough for it to get in her way, and she’s done some very good work now that she’s spelled her hair light brown and fewer people remember what she did in the War. But even if I had somehow managed to get to where Cho is, and I can’t imagine how I would have, but even if I _had_ … well. I couldn’t work in a system that corrupt. And I had no idea how to fix it. That actually felt worse.”

McGonagall nodded at him, and Harry felt a weight lift from his shoulders as she allowed a wise and caring smile to spread across her face. He sat in front of her again.

“Dumbledore was asked many times why he stayed here,” she began. “He could have easily been swept into the Minister’s office on any of several waves of popularity and adulation. Yet he stayed at Hogwarts. Why? ‘Why.’ People asked him often. People couldn’t understand why he would turn down that power and fame and money. Even I asked him once. Thinking I was being clever, I asked if he didn’t think he could accomplish more there. Do more good. Fix more problems.”

She toyed with a shiny metallic object Harry was fairly certain had been Dumbledore’s once. “He said the Ministry was too corrupt for even him to fix.”

“Even Dumbledore?” Harry asked, feeling another weight lift.

“Even him,” McGonagall agreed.

Harry sat back in his chair. “Oh,” he said, feeling slightly overwhelmed.

“And so he chose instead to do his best from here, from this desk at Hogwarts,” she said, putting down the instrument and folding her hands. She looked at Harry intently, as though she expected an answer, but Harry couldn’t imagine what the question was. He looked at the desk and found himself wishing, quite suddenly, for a lemon drop. He sighed inadvertently.

McGonagall stared at him. Then she put her hands flat on the desk. “You asked me if Draco Malfoy was safe. I cannot answer that question. Are any of us always safe? Do any of us always do right by everyone else around us? But I can assure you this, Harry. If that were my broken heirloom, I would show it to Mr Malfoy. I would trust him to treat me with fairness, professionalism and competence. I would even expect him to solve my problem. That is the best I can tell you.”

She sat back in her chair again, spine still ramrod straight.

Feeling dismissed, Harry said “Thank you,” narrowly avoiding calling her Professor but not quite able to call her Minerva. He shook her hand and slipped the sealed up rattle back in his pocket. “I’ll just Floo from here?”


	5. Five

“Minerva too?” Frowning, Hermione put down her fork and picked up her teacup. She took a long sip before she put the cup down again and looked Harry deeply in the eye. “Minerva too. Well. That’s unexpected, but it certainly softens my opinion of Malfoy. Still, just because he’s the right man for _some_ of these jobs doesn’t mean he could be professional with _you_. You two….”

She trailed off as Harry remembered some of the awful things Malfoy had done to both of them back at school. He assumed she was doing the same.

“Yeah,” Harry said softly, and ate another meatball. This recipe had been a good choice, he decided. It had taken Hermione’s mind right off his mismatched outfit earlier, too. That was always good.

“Do you think the problem could have been caused by a potion?” Hermione speculated, lackadaisically stirring her tea.

“Hermione.” Harry said it sourly.

“Yeah,” Hermione said, not reacting to his annoyance. “But maybe it is, you know? I wonder if Snape could help?”

“Snape?” Harry wondered out loud. “Well, I could ask him, but, damn. I thought I was avoiding Malfoy because we didn’t get along. Why would Snape be any better? Besides, he can’t touch the thing, or cast any spells at it, or even, I don’t know, smell it. Do you honestly think he could help?”

“I think a portrait you can walk away from is a less risky option than a Malfoy who might do something dastardly to you, even if he actually wouldn’t do it to anyone else. He hates you. He’s always hated you.”

“He hasn’t _always_ hated me,” Harry said, a little surprised at her vehemence.

“No? I remember him that morning on the train, first year. He ran out of your compartment furious and hateful. I saw him the very second he left. Memorable, he was.”

“But that wasn’t the first time we met,” Harry said, certain he’d told her this story before. “I’m sure I told you. Didn’t I?”

“Tell me what?” Hermione said, taking a meatball up with her fork and swiping up a bit of sauce with it. She smiled as she chewed.

“That I met him in Madame Malkin’s, when Hagrid took me to Diagon Alley before our first year. Hagrid went to Eeylops and found Hedwig. He left me in the clothing store and Malfoy was there and we talked. He was an arrogant little prig, but he certainly didn’t hate me the first time we met.” Harry took up two meatballs and ate them slowly, to have a moment to consider. Hermione ate as well, waiting more patiently than she usually did.

“You know,” Harry said, putting his fork down, “I think he was trying to be… friends. Now that I think about it again, I think he was trying to be friends… both times. Both of those first two times I met him. I think he was trying to be my… friend.”

Harry finished his tea. How had this never occurred to him before? Viewing it all with hindsight, not just as a (sort of) adult, but with a far broader perspective on who Malfoy would probably have been at eleven, it seemed fairly obvious.

“That’s disturbing,” he finally said, unwilling to think about it any longer. “That’s what that is.”

“Hm,” Hermione said, but she stopped pushing and finished her dinner.

. . . . . . . . .

“I am most certainly sure that it wasn’t caused by a potion,” Snape said archly, as though Harry had asked him for reassurance on this multiple times. “But if you wish an airtight confirmation you can soak it in pure rain water, gathered by moonlight. If the water is still quite clear after twelve hours, then you have your confirmation.” He sniffed at Harry. “Which you should have known after your _fourth year_ at Hogwarts, you lazy layabout. You still know nothing about potions and you still, I hear, have no profession or even a _position_ , isn’t that right? I always knew you were a spoiled little whiner with no ambition.”

Harry clenched his hands into fists and took a deep breath. Snape was dead, he reminded himself. He was now simply the equivalent of a reference book. The kind Hagrid might have assigned.

“How much rain water?” he managed to ask instead of reacting.

“Enough to cover it completely and no more,” Snape said sourly. “Which you could have looked up for yourself. Where did you buy it, anyway? Or did you steal it?” His painted face briefly took on a self-satisfied shine.

“It came from the Potter vault,” Harry said, glad that Snape was finally talking about the rattle instead of him. “It was part of a set. I gave the matching teething ring to Ginny and her wife.”

“That’s right,” Snape said, smiling malevolently. “Not only are you jobless and without prospects, your little ginger girlfriend left you for another _woman_. That must feel like a real confirmation of your worth. Or lack of it, I should say.”

Harry shook his head. The man would apparently never change. “Well, sorry to bother you,” he said, tossing the emptied cylinder up and catching it again. He stepped backwards to leave, but Snape stopped him.

“The Potter vault, you said? Do you know the age?”

Hoping this would lead somewhere, Harry told him what Mrs Hatchern had said.

“One to two hundred years? Seolfors?” Snape repeated, looking alarmed. “Are you quite sure she said Seolfors?”

“Well,” Harry said, taking off his glasses and looking closely at the rattle, “pretty much, yeah. I mean, it’s awfully hard to see, but the mark Mrs Hatchern showed me even looks like ‘Sfs,’ so yeah. I’m pretty sure I’ve remembered the name right.” Harry had found the smithing mark by now, and he turned the rattle to look at it right side up. Indeed, it was a stylized capital ‘S’ followed by a lower case ‘f’ and a lower case ‘s.’ It was a lovely mark, and it had helped him remember the name of the shop.

“Here’s the mark,” he said, pointing. He lifted his head to show Snape, but the frame was empty of him. Harry stared stupidly at Snape’s spot, but no one reappeared. He put his glasses back on, but nothing changed.

“Huh,” Harry said, feeling confused. He slipped the rattle back into the cylinder, added water cold enough to grow ice crystals along the sides, and headed for the Floo.

. . . . . . . . .

_

>   
>  February 4, 2001  
> Dear D. Malfoy,
> 
> I have an old silver baby rattle I found in my family vault and it is having magical problems. I have it on good authority that it is not cursed, and that you are the one to see for problematic magical items that are not actually cursed.
> 
> The problem with it is that it will not stop rattling no matter how long it is left alone, and it gets quite hot, perhaps because it is constantly moving and making a jangling, chiming noise? I’ve taken to storing it in cold water, which helps a lot. Anyway, I don’t know the cause or solution and apparently no one else does either.
> 
> I am available most days. Please Floo 12 Grimmauld Place to make an appointment if you are willing.
> 
> Sincerely,  
> Harry Potter  
> 

_

. . . . . . . . .

“Hermione, don’t. I had to ask him. There was no one else.” Hermione looked extremely annoyed at the implication that she was included in that list. She stabbed at the baba ganouj with her pita chip.

“Do you want to be here when he comes over? I’d be happy if you were,” Harry said. He was honestly not sure if he meant that, but he wanted to appease her. Now that Ron had moved to Romania to work with Charlie at the dragon preserve and Ginny was married to Brigit, it often felt like the two of them had no one but each other. She’d been one of his two best friends since he was eleven. Where would he be without her?

“I can’t,” Hermione said, sighing. “You’ve scheduled it when I have a class.”

“You’re always in class,” Harry said grumpily, even though this was ridiculous.

“I am not, and I’m in law school,” Hermione snapped at him. “It’s demanding,” she said more quietly. Then she patted his hand in apology. He turned his hand over and grabbed hers for a moment, then they both let go. Harry sighed.

“I really didn’t want to owl him, Hermione. I think Caversham could tell, frankly. He flew around the room and landed on my shoulder, waiting. I had to shoo him out the window before he would fly off with the damn letter.”

“He’s a good owl,” Hermione said, smiling. She had brought Caversham back from Australia as a gift for Harry, and so felt entitled to a bit of smugness about the owl’s qualities. She was a lot better at picking owls than Harry, certainly. There was a Quidditch pitch of quality between Caversham and Thelonius. At least.

Harry sighed. He picked up the blue-green ceramic bowl to scrape out the last of the hummus with his celery. “But I have to figure this rattle out, and then I should go clean up my vault and find out if anything else in there is a fire hazard or something else bad.”

Hermione frowned. “Yes,” she finally said. “I can agree with that. But I still don’t like it.”

“Me neither,” Harry agreed. “Me neither.”


	6. Six

Harry had never had a professional come to his home for a consultation. Harry had certainly never considered inviting Draco Malfoy over – for anything – until everyone and their brother started naming him as his only hope. So Harry had to guess how to prepare for the visit; and as he often did when he felt unsure, he fell back on imitating Molly Weasley. In other words, he tried to make sure all the things he wore were the same kind of blue, he made a large pot of strong tea, and he baked.

“Do come in,” Harry said stiffly. Malfoy wore a strange furred hat and a ridiculously warm looking fur cloak. He stepped into the house and Harry closed the door.

Harry put his hands out as an unspoken offer to take the cloak and hat, and Malfoy stopped moving for a moment, as though unable to process such a gesture. Nonetheless, a second or so later he gave an uncomfortable nod and removed the cloak. Harry hung it on the coatrack and Malfoy hung his own hat on the hook above it. Under the fur cloak he wore very traditional looking ash gray robes. Harry was surprised to realize that they were desperately unflattering, making Malfoy’s eyes look dull and his skin grayish. His vitality seemed to have been drained away. It was a disturbing thought. On the other hand, at least Malfoy wasn’t sneering.

“The rattle is in the kitchen, with tea and cake,” Harry said to move things forward and stop thinking about Malfoy’s looks. “Please, this way.”

He didn’t like turning his back on Malfoy, but of course he had to, so he swiftly strode toward the kitchen, assuming Malfoy would keep up.

. . . . . . . . .

Malfoy ate no cake, but he drank black tea and asked a lot of questions. Some of them Harry could even answer.

Slightly insulted that Malfoy had politely refused even a small slice of his freshly baked pound cake, Harry ate two.

“All right,” Malfoy finally said. He had placed his new wand on the table. Harry thought about how he’d given up Malfoy’s old one – almost unthinkingly – when the government had demanded it of him. It had officially ended Voldemort, after all, but Harry still sort of thought it should have been Malfoy’s to say yes or no to the Ministry and their museum. Too late now.

Malfoy’s little monocle on a chain was resting on his chest just like Bill’s had. The wet rattle he had wrapped in a cloth that muffled the sound even better than the cold water did. “This is what we know. Potter heirloom, created and probably purchased between one and two hundred years ago. Fairly expensive item, good quality. Not cursed, but certainly magically burdened. And it wants something. Specifically, from you.”

“Wait,” Harry said with an involuntary shudder. To his dismay he was now remembering the way Voldemort’s cave had required Dumbledore’s blood. “What sort of something does it want?”

“I don’t know,” Malfoy said, frowning at it. “But an action of some sort, almost certainly. I believe what you are dealing with here is unfulfilled promise magic.” He put up a hand and kept talking over Harry, who tried to interrupt. “I know. Most haven’t heard of it. It wasn’t part of our Hogwarts curriculum, unfortunately. It is largely ignored now, but once was considered as mundane as, say, house cleaning magic.”

“Which isn’t taught at Hogwarts either,” Harry said sadly. Molly had needed to teach him everything he now knew about keeping his place up. “Wait, it was _once_ considered mundane? What is it considered now?”

“At worst, forgotten. At best, hopelessly old fashioned,” Malfoy said dryly, and sipped his tea. “And a major source of revenue for me, as a result. You see, unlike most spells, promise magic rarely dissipates or even deteriorates when the original caster dies. There are a few types of magic that don’t. The wards at Hogwarts, for example. They were originally set when the castle structure was completed. The original casters are all long dead. But the wards are tied into the natural earth magic there, which the castle was built specifically to channel and enhance. Old wizarding houses were almost all built that way, as well. In addition, there was a period when powering and boosting family magic with purchased or fashioned objects was all the vogue. That was common for three or four hundred years, and only fully went out of fashion about seventy five, maybe eighty years ago. The magic powering this rattle is almost certainly family magic of some sort, possibly boosted by something sitting right there in the family vault. When you touched it, you awakened an unfulfilled but well stocked magical promise. One that was meant to last long past the caster’s death.”

Malfoy sipped his tea again. Feeling lost but vaguely encouraged by Malfoy’s confident expertise, Harry cut him a slice of cake and slid it across the table, even though he’d politely refused the cake once.

“I’d be shocked if it wanted anything truly sinister,” Malfoy continued, ignoring the cake. “But we will need to proceed carefully. After all, while a great-great-grand-uncle, or such, would be highly unlikely to wish you harm before you were even born, he might have been a bit off his rocker. Or he might have had some crazy or destructive sense of humor. I’ve seen that sort of thing on rare occasion. So we won’t rush. And to answer the question I assume comes next, yes. I am saying ‘we’ on purpose. I will actually need you to be present for at least some of the work, as I do believe the heirloom’s unfulfilled promise is reacting to a family connection.”

“So do we power down the booster, or figure out the promise?” Harry finally asked.

Malfoy looked up at him from his tea. “That’s actually a far savvier question than I usually get, Potter.” He gave Harry an uncomfortable smile. “We might easily find the booster in your vault, but since there is little way to tell what else it is powering, I do not recommend that at all. It is almost certainly a very nice and very old object, doing good things for your house and possibly for your own health and the health of any Potter relatives there might still be in the world. No, even though I suspect it will require quite a lot of sleuthing, we are going to need to track down the actual promise.”

Then, to Harry’s surprise, Malfoy picked up his fork and took a bite of cake. “Oh,” he said very quietly. “This is good.”

. . . . . . . . .

Despite what Malfoy had said about not seeking the magical booster, they made plans to go to Harry’s vault the very next morning. “It’s the best place to look for a portrait of any Potter relatives,” Harry explained uncomfortably to Hermione, who had come over for dinner, as usual.

“Hm,” Hermione said, frowning. She managed not to say anything else, though, choosing instead to take a large piece of chicken for her plate.

“It turns out we have to do detective work for this. We’re not going to get the answer from the rattle.” Harry paused to eat a piece of broccoli. “Or the teething ring. I did think to mention that, but he said it won’t help either.”

Hermione was finishing her last bite, so Harry took a large bite of his chicken. He’d roasted it with an onion and bacon stuffing recipe he’d found, and was extremely pleased with his results.

Hermione took advantage of his full mouth to start in on him, however.

“I know you feel you don’t have a choice about this, Harry, and I guess I agree. You should find out what is going on with that heirloom. But I want to suggest that you not turn your back on Malfoy while you two are in your vault. I do not trust him and I still can’t see why you would, either. Nor do I think a goblin is going to save you from him. Someone should look into his current reputation. What has he really done to show you that he is trustworthy now? He certainly wasn’t before.”

She sipped at her tea and Harry thought to say _something_ , but she started back in the moment she swallowed.

“For that matter, if you do find any family portraits in your vault I certainly hope you don’t leave them there! After all, they would be terribly lonely, locked up in your dark old Gringott’s vault, surely? Which reminds me. After you ask them about the rattle you should see what sort of jobs they had. Maybe they’ll have some good idea you could explore toward your own career aspirations. Which _also_ reminds me. Did you read that book Arthur gave you?? I saw it next to your reading chair last time I was here, and the bookmark was awfully close to the front. But you really should read it, Harry. It’s terribly highly regarded. Honestly, I hear it’s just brilliant.”

She finally stopped talking for a moment to take another sip of her tea. Sick of her badgering, Harry leaped into her brief silence and went right for the jugular. “Met any nice guys in law school, yet?”

Instead of answering, she turned quite pink and gulped at her tea.

“I’ll be careful with Malfoy,” Harry finally said, and gripped her hand for a moment.

“I’ll…” Hermione stopped talking and looked at the table. “I’ll try to stop nagging,” she finally said. They didn’t say anything else until it was time to watch some bad telly.

He didn’t even have a chance to tell her that the rattle was getting worse. He’d had to enlarge the container of ice water last night, and today he’d decided he was going to need to reinforce the walls.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry met Malfoy in the Gringott’s lobby the next morning. He worried for a moment that he was late, but then he saw that Malfoy was only just now hanging his heavy fur cloak in the coat check the goblins had set up for the winter. Harry never used it. It was an expensive extravagance in his opinion. Apparently Malfoy’s attitudes about money had not changed.

“Ah,” Malfoy said, appearing to dampen some sort of naturally occurring sneer. “There you are.” Today he was wearing some sort of horrible pale green. It made him look slightly yellow, and Harry found it hard to look at him.

“I know you’ve just arrived as well, Malfoy,” Harry said defensively, sure Malfoy was about to snap at him.

“Quite,” Malfoy said, presumably biting back something choice. “Shall we?”

They found a goblin and with his assistance made their way to Harry’s family vault. “It’s a terrible mess,” Harry blurted as the cart stopped in front of 687.

“Most are,” Malfoy said casually. “It isn’t as though the goblins will stand around for hours while you tidy, after all.”

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling stupid for not having realized this himself. Then he wondered why Malfoy was being reassuring, when just a few minutes before he’d been almost nasty. Shrugging at the inexplicableness of Malfoys in general, and this one specifically, Harry opened the vault with his key.

. . . . . . . . .

Thanks to magic, and Malfoy’s extra set of hands, it only took about fifteen minutes to pile the cart with one set of diaries and three large, heavy family portraits; two of whom kept exclaiming about how eager they were to get out of the vault. The other one was fast asleep on a sofa at the back of her painted room.

There were two desks, a dresser and a weird looking thing that turned out to be a rolltop desk with the top rolled down. Harry checked all the drawers he could both see and open, but he found nothing else that looked at all promising, so they got in the cart and let the two male portraits babble at one another. They were able to get it all back to Grimmauld Place easily, as – contrary to a sudden fear Harry experienced – it was perfectly all right to _Apparate_ with an animated portrait.

“They may seem alive,” Malfoy said, sounding like he was trying hard to be patient, “but it’s no harder than _Apparating_ with any inanimate object. Besides, I hear you’ve been able to side-along a fully grown wizard for years anyway.”

“Er,” Harry said, not wanting to admit that he’d been afraid _Apparition_ would itself somehow damage the painting, not that he wasn’t powerful enough to side-along a portrait. Or a person, for that matter. “Okay.”

The paintings that were awake were both happy to talk with Harry and Malfoy, but they didn’t know anything at all about the silver baby set. The sleeping lady was still curled up on a sofa, under a blanket and looking very small. Harry and Malfoy set the portraits on the floor in Harry’s library and before Malfoy left he asked Harry to start reading the diaries immediately. He’d been willing to read them himself, but Harry felt this would be a terrible violation of his ancestors’ privacy.

He was also pretty sure that, in conveying that idea to Malfoy, he had – unintentionally – been horrifically insulting.

. . . . . . . . .

After Malfoy left, Harry opened the first diary, but the penmanship was… challenging. He put it down and went into the basement to find a hammer and nails. When he arrived in the library with them, two of his new paintings had a few hundred ideas about exactly how and where they should be on the walls. Deciding that he really needed some sustenance to tackle this new project, he headed for the kitchen to make lunch. 


	8. Eight

Harry, it turned out, had hung portraits of Philberton and Aelfred Potter on his wall. They were a father and son, and they had both been painted long enough ago that neither of them knew how they were related to Harry. Between chatting with them, feeding himself and Hermione, and needing to force himself to concentrate on the diaries – which were mostly proving pretty damn boring – Harry made very slow progress with the reading.

It also annoyed him tremendously that the third portrait had been empty since shortly after he’d brought it home. Neither Philberton nor Aelfred had had the chance to see who was in it, although there was talk that it might be Aelfred’s wife Sophronia, or possibly Philberton’s mother, as she had been silently asleep for either weeks or months.

Harry was beginning to feel extremely guilty about not having fetched the family portraits from the vault before today. They were making it clear that hanging out in a lightless family vault was deathly boring, indeed. And apparently he had left some behind, as well, even though he thought he and Malfoy had searched quite thoroughly.

Then Harry found Lacerta Potter’s diary at the bottom of his small stack, and soon found that he needed to know who she was. Now. And Philberton and Aelfred were asleep again.

. . . . . . . . .

“Molly, who was Lacerta Potter? Do you know? I found her diary in my vault, so she had to have been a relative. Right?”

Molly sat back and looked at the Burrow’s ceiling for a moment. Harry had shown up as she was taking several loaves of pumpkin courgette bread out of the oven. “I think she was… I think Lacerta was your great-grandmother. James’ father’s mother. Lacerta married, er, I am pretty sure his name was Philberton.”

Harry’s ears perked up and he sat forward in Molly’s kitchen chair.

“They had two children and one of them was your grandfather Aelfred. The other one became my Auntie Corinnea, that’s how I remember all this stuff.” She smiled at him. “Anyway, Aelfred married Sophronia and they eventually had your Dad. Did you say you found her diary?”

Harry explained the rattle-related cascading mess as quickly as he could. Things were getting complicated.

Molly was very pleased that Harry had found ancestors. “James must have cleared all those things out of his parent’s home before he went into hiding with you and your Mum. I’d always worried that all those heirlooms of yours had been destroyed when your old house was razed, the night you had to go live with the Dursley’s. I’m so pleased your father put them in storage, instead.” She gave him a little smile. “Or perhaps he was just baby-proofing the house, hm?”

“But then why would Dad have put a silver baby set in the vault, instead of keeping it for me?” Harry wondered. He cut himself a generous slice of the quickbread while Molly thought about this.

“You said the set was old,” she finally said. She sipped her tea. “Maybe your dad wasn’t the one to put it away? Anyway, you said you found diaries from a few relatives. Why is Lacerta the one you’re so interested in?”

Harry thought about this for a second. He finished his slice of pumpkin courgette bread and Molly smiled approvingly. “She was interesting,” he finally told Molly. “She was… she was hilarious, actually. She had a biting, sarcastic wit, and she made all these clever, funny observations about other people, and she was… she was a really good _writer_. And apparently,” he said slowly, “she was my great-grandmother. My dad’s, dad’s, mum. That’s so….”

Harry was feeling a little overwhelmed. He’d just hung portraits of his great-grandfather and his grandfather on his library wall. He could go home and talk to them. He could ask them about the Potter family. He had ancestors. Suddenly, Harry had Wizarding ancestors he could _talk to_.

Molly patted Harry’s hand. “I am so happy for you,” she said simply. Then she topped up his tea.

. . . . . . . . .

“Malfoy,” Harry said proudly, “I would like to introduce you to my great-grandfather Philberton Potter and his son, my grandfather Aelfred Potter.”

“Young Malfoy,” great-grandfather Philberton said with deep, booming approval in his voice. Perhaps he liked Malfoy’s conservative, black robes. “My wife is a dear, dear friend of a relative of yours. Verena. Do you know how you are related to Verena Malfoy?”

“Sir,” Malfoy said, sounding slightly quieter and less assertive than usual. “Verena Malfoy was, if I am not mistaken, my great-great-great-grandmother.”

“Really?” Harry said, a bit shocked. “How is it that there are two more generations in your family than in mine?”

Malfoy gave a tiny shrug, so Harry turned to Aelfred. “How could you not have realized before that your son was my father?”

“When I was painted,” Aelfred said in surprise, “I was childless.” He looked down. “And ninety-three years old. I had long since given up on the possibility of children. I suppose Sophronia… didn’t.” He glanced toward the still-empty frame where a female relative had been for a while. “I wish she was here,” he said sadly.

“So do I,” Harry said, surprised by the vehemence with which he meant it.

. . . . . . . . .

The third frame was still empty when Hermione came to dinner that night. She had brought a larger, safer container for the rattle and they switched it carefully into her plain black ceramic urn, levitating it from one to the other. In the brief time they had it out of the ice water, it started to turn red with heat. This stupid piece of silver was really starting to concern Harry. They had to solve this problem, and fast.

Hermione was eager to hear everything Harry had learned, and when he ran out of updates – which happened far too fast – she suggested they go chat with his ancestors.

“Your girlfriend!” Aelfred boomed out, when the two of them entered the library. Harry blushed in discomfort, but Hermione looked genuinely embarrassed. “No,” she blurted, “I’m not!”

“She’s my best friend,” Harry blurted loudly. “Like a sister.”

“You grew up together?” Philberton asked then, sounding cautiously optimistic. “Her family is twined with ours? What is your surname, child?”

“Granger,” Hermione said promptly. “And no, I’m…” she hesitated and looked at Harry, but he smiled encouragingly, then thought to say it for her.

“Muggle-born,” she said.

“Muggle-born,” Harry said nearly at the same time. “Hermione Granger,” he went on. “She’s Muggle-born. We met at Hogwarts.”

“Muggle-born!” roared Aelfred. “Muggle-born! And ‘best friends,’ but not engaged to be married? Mother won’t be pleased at all, should she ever decide to show up!”

“She won’t?” Harry said, swallowing. Were his Potter relatives racist?

“You should be getting married soon, son. You tell me my son was _your father_ at your age!”

“Er,” Harry said, feeling miserable and overwhelmed by Aelfred’s vehemence and dismay. “I should see Hermione out.” He grabbed her hand and rushed for the door of the library, pulling her away as quickly as she would go.

“They…” Hermione said, and stopped.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said, and twisted his hands together nervously. 

“I, er, I have a lot of reading, class tomorrow,” Hermione said, not looking Harry in the eye.

“Of course,” Harry said, fetching her coat and walking toward the door.

He watched from the doorway as she waved goodbye from the front step of the Knight Bus. When it vanished with her, he shut the door and went inside.

Philberton and Aelfred were becoming increasingly hard to talk with. They’d just embarrassed the hell out of him, frankly. He’d left Lacerta’s diary in there, too, and now he felt far too weird to go in there and fetch it. Instead he headed to the kitchen to tidy up from dinner and plan a shopping list. He ended up baking a chocolate cake and eating a quarter of it all by himself in front of the telly. Then he went to bed.


	9. Nine

“And then they insulted Hermione, got hugely angry that she’s Muggle-born, and I can’t explain why I’m not married, and the rattle is getting worse… don’t you want to try the cake? I just baked it last night.” Harry stared at the table. He felt like cutting himself yet another slice of cake, but he didn’t want to do that in front of Malfoy, who had sat, hands folded on the table, listening politely as Harry tried to explain why he didn’t want to ask his grandfather anything else today. 

Today Malfoy had worn blue, which would be an improvement if the robes weren’t so damn dull.

“I,” Malfoy finally said after Harry had waited long enough to feel almost as though there were ants crawling on his skin. “It looks delicious,” he finally said, sounding like he was holding back the Thames. He took a small bite of the cake. “Mmm,” he said quietly, and slowly ate his piece.

Harry tried to calm down.

“Perhaps, if you are willing, we should go to my house,” Malfoy said quietly. “I suspect we could find a portrait of my Great-Great-Great-Grandmother Verena there. Perhaps we could ask her some questions?”

“Maybe she knows where Lacerta is,” Harry said. “Supposedly I have a portrait of her somewhere. It might even be the one in my library. But she’s never in it.”

Malfoy swallowed another small bite of Harry’s chocolate cake. “Your great-grandfather said they were close, maybe she’s visiting the manor’s portraits?”

Harry stabbed morosely at his cake. “I thought they could only do that if they had a portrait in the building?”

“Yes,” Malfoy paused but didn’t sigh. “But if they were that close, they might have had a portrait painted together?” Malfoy folded his hands firmly together and didn’t look at Harry. He sounded like his patience was wearing thin, but Harry couldn’t see why that was something _he_ should have been able to think of.

“Anything to avoid my library,” he moped, and then he refused to look up from his cake when Malfoy had to be smirking at him.

They _Flooed_ to Malfoy Manor as soon as they were done eating their cake.

. . . . . . . . .

“Dincy.” Malfoy called it out in a clear voice, and a tiny, yellowish House Elf appeared in the foyer. She wore two clean white tea towels sewn neatly together up the sides. The one on the front had advertised some sort of store once, before the ink had been bleached away (Harry suspected) over many years. Pink yarn had been crocheted over the shoulders and around the hem, to create little sleeve-like caps, and a ruffle.

It was the strangest not-clothing that was clearly clothing Harry could ever remember seeing, and he wondered if the Malfoys hadn’t told little Dincy that all the House Elves had been freed after the War. Kingsley’s declaration had said that it was in gratitude for all the House Elves had done to fight against Voldemort. Harry thought it had more to do with getting Hermione to leave Kingsley the fuck alone, but he had no intention of asking Kingsley for confirmation.

“Master?” The House Elf had a squeaky voice. Harry tried to smile at her. But she ignored him completely, looking toward Malfoy with a sort of desperation that Harry found disturbing.

“I am looking for a portrait of my Great-Great-Great-Grandmother Verena. Do you know if one might be hung or stored somewhere in the house?”

“Yes, Master!” Dincy looked ecstatic as she realized she could do Malfoy’s bidding. Harry felt his stomach turn, but carefully kept his mouth shut as Dincy bowed and turned to lead them into the house.

“Draco!” A concerned, yet somewhat imperious voice rang out from a nearby room, and Malfoy motioned to Dincy to wait. They all stopped walking and Malfoy turned. “Yes, mother?” he said, and he listened silently, turned away from Harry as she essentially ordered him to come into the sitting room. “Your guest, as well,” she said, and Malfoy turned toward Harry. “I hope you are willing?” he asked, rubbing miserably at the back of his neck. Harry could only nod yes, though he didn’t want to talk with Narcissa Malfoy at all. Not least of which because she was keeping him from her long dead, painted relative.

“Mother,” Malfoy greeted his seated mother, who had been reading a book and drinking from a miniscule tea cup. It sat beside a steaming pot of fragrant tea.

Mrs Malfoy, however, ignored her son and looked at Harry. “Snape paid me a visit the other day,” she said suddenly, and Harry sat heavily and unbidden in the chair next to hers, feeling as though she was about to reveal something horrible.

“You have an old heirloom, an infant’s rattle, made by the old silver company Seolfors?”

Harry nodded.

“He says he knows of it. Lucius overheard portraits discussing it, many years ago. He was a student, as was Snape. As was your father, James Potter. Lucius and James did not… get along well. Lucius fancied himself Snape’s mentor, after a fashion, and, well, I’m sure you can extrapolate. Later, when your father and mother got engaged, Snape told me that Lucius visited Hogwarts – ostensibly to attend a Quidditch match – but apparently his true reason was to taunt your parents. About a silver heirloom. From Seolfors. Snape says it’s terribly dangerous, Mr Potter. It has something to do with your mother’s… blood status.” Mrs Malfoy blushed prettily and looked away.

“I see,” Harry said, though he did not. “Do you know anything else?”

“The portraits, they were here in the manor, and they were deeply interested in your mother’s blood status, because she was marrying your father. My husband warned your parents, Mr Potter, in his way. I even heard a rumour that after Lucius warned him, James Potter filled his Gringotts vault with antiques so they wouldn’t harm or insult his new wife. But that Seolfors heirloom, I believe it could be extremely dangerous to you, personally. To you specifically. So I wanted to warn you to be careful. But also….”

She stopped speaking and looked away, somehow even more uncomfortable now than she had been before. Harry considered taking the sealed up silver rattle from his robe pocket to show her, as when it was immersed in ice water it didn’t really look all that dangerous, but it occurred to him that it might actually frighten her to see the thing up close. Mostly because she was clearly very upset without even having seen it.

“It’s very kind of you to warn me, Mrs Malfoy. It sounds like there might be more you wanted to say?”

“I only,” she paused to sip her tea. Harry thought she might be composing herself. “You have my permission to speak with any portrait in my home that you wish,” she finally said. “You are a brave, strong and solid young Wizard. But I felt it was important to warn you, not only about the potential dangers of the silver heirloom itself, but also of the potential discomforts that a conversation about it might bring. My husband’s ancestor. She might express very negative opinions about you and your mother. You have previously suffered in my home, and in response you have returned to us only mercy and the kindest justice. I could not let you go upstairs without, at least, a warning.”

“I…” Harry faltered to a stop. He took a deep breath and stood. Then he gave Mrs Malfoy a tiny little bow. “I appreciate your warning and your honesty, Mrs Malfoy. I appreciate it very much. I’ll keep it in mind when I go upstairs to speak with Verena’s portrait. I hope it’s not like that.”

Mrs Malfoy stood and grasped his hand. She was shorter than he was, but only by a little bit. “I hope so as well, Mr Potter. Draco, take good care of our guest. Dincy?”

The tiny House Elf reappeared and bowed again. Harry had no idea when she had vanished before, but now he realized she’d missed his entire conversation with Malfoy’s mum. “Show Draco and our guest upstairs. I will be retiring now.”

Dincy led the two of them up a back staircase, down a long hallway and into a dusty room with sparse, covered furniture. Harry found himself wiping his sweaty palms on his robes over and over as he followed Malfoy and Dincy. What sort of horrible bitch was he about to talk to? Would it be like Mrs Black’s portrait all over again? Screaming fury and a complete lack of any real information? Hatred and no help? He tried not to sigh audibly. “It will be what it will be and then it will be over,” he muttered under his breath. Thank goodness Malfoy hadn’t heard him.

Dincy walked to a covered portrait frame, and gently pulled the cloth from it. It was of a room, essentially empty but for a sumptuous looking couch in the background. “Master,” she said quietly. Then she folded up the cover, placed it on the floor in front of the frame, and vanished.

“Great-grandmother?” Malfoy called, a bit too loudly for the small room. A long, heavy moment passed, during which Harry felt like he swallowed half his tongue and sweated enough to dampen his hair. _Malfoy’s ancestor._ In this house! What the hell had he been thinking?

Then a witch in dark, odd looking robes stuck her head in the frame. “Are you looking for me, youngster?” She sounded annoyed. Her hair was white, and drawn up into a strange little cap. Harry thought it looked uncomfortable. Her robes looked confining, the colours severe. But, despite her clothing, the look on her face was mischievous and her voice was lively.

“Perhaps,” Malfoy said politely. “Are you Verena Malfoy? I am Draco Malfoy, currently the youngest Malfoy. I believe I am Verena’s great-great-great-grandson. I was hoping to talk to her about Lacerta Potter, whose Great-Grandson Harry is here as well.”

Malfoy gestured vaguely in Harry’s direction, and the painting looked toward him. Feeling positively idiotic, Harry caught the painted witch’s eye, and gave her a small, awkward wave. “Hi,” he said quietly.

“So, you’re Certain’s latest, eh?” She was looking at Harry now, and she sounded kind of demanding.

Harry had no idea what to say. “Er,” he managed, and scratched his head.

“Aelfred explained,” she told him. Then, “Certy!” the witch called, off-frame. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Get over here, you old goat. Your grandy grand wants you!”

“Does he now?” A voice asked, and then a similarly attired, white-haired witch crowded into the frame. She pulled a small pair of glasses from a tiny pouch at her waist and slipped them on, saying “let me get a look at you then.”

She looked him up and down, and then she gave a large grin. “So!” The witch sounded bright and buoyant, in contrast to her dour clothing and slightly sourer friend. “You’re my bet, finally won! Or your parents were, anyway. Sort of a combination, really. Good to meet you, finally, all these years after I died. I knew my family was better,” she told the other witch, elbowing her ungently in the ribs. “Didn’t know it would take this damn long to prove it, though!”

“I, er, don’t think I understand,” Harry said, stepping closer to the witches in their curliqued silver frame.

“No? I suppose not. Though my idiot husband tells me you started reading my diary. You should really ask permission before you start reading someone’s private journals, you know.” She frowned prodigiously at Harry, who sputtered a little and coughed out half an apology before his great-grandmother’s laughter drowned him out.

By now Malfoy had sat down on the only chair, first spelling the cover clean. He simply left the once dusty cover in place under his severe, ugly robes. Harry looked at him, feeling helpless, but Malfoy merely shrugged and looked back at the painted women.

“I’m kidding, little grandy, just kidding. I’m ever so pleased to be the winner! Knew my family would make the better match! Have the first baby! But you have to hand blondie over there the rattle now, you understand. Now it’s his family’s turn to measure up, don’t you see!”

“But that’s just it!” Harry said, finally getting annoyed. “I don’t see anything! Are you Lacerta?” He pointed at the cackling witch. “Is she Verena?” Harry pointed at the one behind her. “What bet did you win?” Harry threw his hands up in question. “Are you the reason the rattle went crazy? Why do you think Grandfather is an idiot?” Harry threw his hands outward. “Are you angry I’m reading your diary? Because I don’t want to stop!” Harry took the sealed up rattle from his pocket and waved it toward their frame.

“And besides, I’ve handed this damn thing over to Malfoy multiple times, and it still won’t shut the hell up!”

“Oh,” the ancient witch said, sounding unperturbed. “Well, then you just have to be more formal about it, that's all. Right, Very?”

The other witch nodded, also unconcerned. “Sounds about right,” she agreed. “Shouldn’t be too hard, really. Just make a bit of a production about it. Certy always was one for a bit of pomp.”

“Oh hush, Very,” Lacerta said. “You were too.” 

“Never said I wasn’t,” Verena agreed calmly. Then she winked at Harry. “And yes, son, this is your great-whatever grandmother Lacerta Potter, usually known as Certain by those who knew her well. As for me, I am indeed Verena Malfoy, that blond one’s great-whatever grandmother. Certain always did like to call me ‘Very,’ though it never did catch on with anyone else. We were best friends in life, and still are in death.”

Confused, Harry sat down on the floor. Verena ignored this and simply kept speaking. Harry listened, wondering if he was supposed to respond.

“We’ve been hiding out in this portrait for a long, long time indeed. I’m not sure how long, but I do know we don’t have any other portraits about, except the one of just Lacerta that apparently now resides in your house? She only goes back there to nap. Now that she doesn’t actually _have_ to spend time with Philberton, she pretty much never does.”

Lacerta sat on the couch behind Verena, and when Verena turned around to look at her, Lacerta gestured for her to continue.

“We were at Hogwarts together,” Verena said patiently. “Ravenclaws, both of us. Lacerta Bludstonn and Verena Strame. A pair of pureblooded girls from tiny, no-name families with no money, no background. But sharp as tacks both of us.” She winked at Harry, who slowly nodded back, waiting to hear everything.

“When the parents of Arcturus Malfoy decided I’d be a fine daughter-in-law, there was no way my mother and father would have ever turned their offer down. And Lacerta had by then caught the eye of Philberton Potter, which seemed to her parents, again, to be too good to be true. And so we were sold off to the highest bidder, the both of us; unconsulted and nearly uninvolved.”

Behind Verena, Lacerta sat on her couch and sighed.

“It was the fashion for a bit. Marry a poor girl, and she’ll be deferential and malleable. Do whatever the husband and his parents want. No opinions. Not about anything: politics, child-rearing, investments, anything. Brood mares, we were. I was expected to bear one blond son, and did so. Once he was deemed adequately male and magical, I was…” she paused.

“Set aside, she was,” Lacerta interjected from the couch. “For years. She’s hesitating because she thinks she ought to feel bad about it, but she hated being married to that moron and having him ignore her and her son was a tremendous relief!”

Verena nodded, her cheeks turning a bit pink. Lacerta got up off the couch and crowded into the frame with Verena, grabbing her friend’s painted hand.

“I wasn’t as lucky,” Lacerta said, once she’d taken a moment to breathe and support Verena. “Philberton fancied himself in _love_ with me, and he wanted to have a lot of babies.” She looked to the side and muttered the next: “Lucky for me I do actually like babies.”

“I thought you only had two?” Harry said, wondering if he was remembering Molly’s historical tale wrong.

“We had two that lived,” Lacerta said darkly.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said faintly, feeling the loss of those long-ago relatives like a solid blow. He was glad to have sat down beforehand.

“At any rate,” Lacerta continued, “in some ways we were terribly lucky. We both finished taking all our O.W.L.S., and then were permitted a whole extra year of Hogwarts, which a lot of girls weren’t allowed back then. Then we married men of the same social class, so our friendship remained both respectable and easy. Neither felt guilty about having more money or invitations or social capital, all that nonsense that seems so important while you’re still alive.” Harry saw Lacerta squeeze Verena’s hand again, and saw Verena turn a bit, and briefly lean her head against Lacerta’s shoulder.

“At any rate, we were at a wedding, a horrible, dull-as-dust pureblood wedding, when Certain bet me that _her_ offspring would surely marry a Muggle-born before any of mine.”

“Wait,” Malfoy said abruptly from his chair. He stood and stepped toward the portrait. “You bet each other… what?”

“You were right, Certy,” Verena said tartly. “I should have known Arcturus’ stupidity would breed true.”

Harry laughed nervously. Malfoy just stood there looking shocked.

But Harry, too, had to be clear about this. “You _wanted_ a Muggle-born to marry into the family? Both of you?”

“Have wizards gotten stupid about this, then?” Lacerta asked sharply. “Of course we wanted Muggle-borns to marry in,” she continued, looking impatient. “You need a little fresh blood every once in a while. Even better, a little fresh _magic_. Otherwise you end up with stale, pale, _stupid_ children. That one there looks like good proof of it,” she snapped, pointing at Malfoy, who – to his credit – didn’t react.

“Fresh magic?” Harry asked, wanting to keep his great-grandmother on track.

“Well, of course,” she said, as though amazed this required an explanation. “Magical families are magical because they just _are_ , yes? They pass it on, parent to child. Like red hair or green eyes. But why is a Muggle-born magical? If it didn’t come from a parent, then where did it come from?”

“I…,” Harry paused. That was a damn good question, and he wasn’t sure why no one was trying to figure out the answer. How _had_ his Mum been born a witch, then? “I don’t think we have any idea,” he said, feeling painfully unaware. “They didn’t teach anything about it at Hogwarts. Not at all. And during the War, well, the bad guys tried to pretend that Muggle-borns _stole_ their magic.” Harry stopped looking at the women, not wanting to see their faces. “But that’s stupid. No one believes that for real. That was an excuse to….”

Harry paused. He stole a look at Lacerta and Verena, and they looked blankly shocked. For the first time since they’d appeared, they were both silent.

“It was an excuse to oppress people and take power from others, unearned,” Malfoy finally interjected. There was a mixture of determination and embarrassment on his face.

“Do you know what Harry here did in the war?” Malfoy asked the portraits. He’d spread his palms out, and now he leaned forward. They did not answer. They still looked a bit surprised. Harry suspected the War itself was news to them, hidden away as they had been, reacting as they were.

“Because you should. Mrs Potter in particular should know. He’s done your family proud beyond measure,” Malfoy told Harry’s great-grandmother. “I suggest you leave this frame and ask about. Other portraits right here in the Manor can inform you of the dealings of the last twenty years or so. The Muggle-born Lily Potter and her son Harry give great weight to Mrs Potter’s theory about the value of Muggle-born blood. Now, if you two will kindly excuse us, it’s time for tea.”

Then Malfoy reached for Harry’s hand and pulled him unceremoniously from the room, closing the door firmly, quietly behind them.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy said, releasing Harry’s hand and running both of his hands through his hair, looking nervous and even distraught. “I’m sorry to pull you from your family. But that conversation… well, quite simply it was getting to be too much for me.” He looked at Harry, his mussed hair quickly falling cleanly back into place. “Not because I needed to tell them that you’re a hero. I don’t want you think that. But only because… the war.” He frowned. “It’s my least favourite topic.”

“Me too,” Harry said quickly, both because it was true and because he felt a need to reassure Malfoy that this was ok. “You said something about tea?” he asked then, hoping to defuse at least some of the tension.

“Yes, of course,” Malfoy said, laughing a little. “This way, please?”


	10. Ten

Harry was excited. “So they aren’t upset that you’re Muggle-born! Not at all!”

Hermione looked curious. “They’re just bothered that you’re single?”

“Well,” Harry said, thinking things through again, “yes. I think that does bother them.” He picked at his cabbage. Trust Hermione to figure out the unpleasant part he’d been unwilling to consider.

“They’re going to be awfully angry when they find out I’m gay,” he eventually said, feeling morose. “They clearly think I should be busy making babies. And preferably with a rich, Muggle-born, girl.” He stabbed at a fatty piece of corned beef with annoyance. He thought he’d trimmed the meat better than this.

“How do you think they’d feel about surrogacy?” Hermione said airily, not looking at Harry. She looked far too studiously unconcerned to be convincing, and something inside Harry’s mind noticed this and filed it away to be considered much, much later. Maybe in ten years.

“I can’t guess and I don’t want to ask,” Harry said pointedly, “because I am light years away from being father material. And I’m pretty sure you’d agree that something vaguely like a job should come first? And then a husband?”

“Of course,” Hermione agreed extremely quickly, nodding too hard. Then she took a bite of corned beef that was clearly too large, hid her chewing behind a napkin and looked very pink from the cheeks up.

Harry was happy to change the subject away from having a child. Ever. The closest he was currently willing to get was spending the day with Andy and Teddy, or rarely, even just Teddy – both of which he did enjoy a great deal. But still. Teddy always went home to his grandmother.

“I finally finished that book Arthur gave me,” Harry said, knowing his career (or “career”) was a good way to get Hermione off practically any other subject. He hadn’t exactly read the book, but he had skimmed it, with increasing despair. It didn’t seem to have a single idea he wanted to use.

“You read the whole thing?” Hermione asked, seeming to catch Harry’s careful choice of verb.

Harry had no intention of admitting the truth. “It was no help at all,” he replied instead. “The whole thing was basically about how I should follow my dream. Hermione, I don’t have a fucking dream. I don’t have a fucking _clue_. How am I supposed to find a worthwhile career path when I have no idea what I want to do with myself? My life?”

Hermione’s face fell a bit. “That’s… disappointing,” she eventually said, and reached across the table to briefly squeeze his hand.

He squeezed back and then they both let go and continued to eat in silence. Together, Harry’s knife and plate made a sudden loud squeal as he tried to cut a bit of corned beef, and he put his knife down and sighed.

“I’m getting remarkably good at knowing what I don’t want, anyway. I don’t want fame, so Quidditch is out. I don’t want to work inside anything even a little corrupt, like any part of any aspect of the Ministry. At all. I don’t want anyone’s life in my hands ever again. So law is _right out_ , but so is, say, making brooms; which actually sounded really cool for a few days until I wondered what would happen to my life if someone fell off a broom I made and died.” Harry stared at his mostly empty plate and took a moment to collect himself. That last idea was so honestly horrible that he had to stop talking for a moment to shake off the fear abruptly gripping at his intestines. 

Harry took a deep breath and started again. “I suck at potions, which means I can’t do anything with Healing. I’d be incredibly bad at anything freelance-like, where I had to go out and find new clients or customers all the time.” He put his fork down and sat back in his wooden chair. “And I haven’t got a single drop of artistic talent.”

“Well,” Hermione said slowly, “that last one is only sort of true.” She was mopping up the last of the meat sauce with the last of her cabbage and bread.

“Hermione,” Harry said, amused, “what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m not saying you can draw like Dean or paint like Luna, but Harry, you’re really becoming a hell of a cook. You’re even better than my Mum, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s saying something.”

“Really?” Harry said, pausing. “You think I’m a better cook than your Mum. _Your_ Mum?” Harry had eaten dinner over at Hermione’s quite a few times after he’d moved into Grimmauld Place after the War, and he and Ron and Hermione were all in agreement that Dr Granger might be a little obsessed about sugar and with flossing, but she was still a fantastic cook. Unlike Molly Weasley, she didn’t limit herself to English food, but instead enjoyed cooking classes and made marvelous versions of everything from sushi, to tandoori, to lasagna.

“Honestly? Yes, I do,” Hermione said earnestly. “Maybe you could become a chef. Open a restaurant.”

“Oh, Hermione,” Harry said, horrified. “My restaurant would be crawling with… _fans_. Plus, I’d have to advertise and promote the place. That’s two of the things I just said I really don’t want!”

“Oh,” Hermione said. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry. But… what if someone else owned the restaurant?”

“I can’t quite imagine how I would make that happen,” Harry said, trying to get her to stop. “But I suppose, well, maybe that would solve the problem. Know anybody rich enough to open a restaurant?”

“Other than you?” she asked, a little pointedly. “No.”

“There you go,” Harry said. Now, are you done eating? Because our favorite show is about to come on.”

. . . . . . . . .

After Hermione left, Harry snuck into his own library under his invisibility cloak and slipped out with Lacerta’s diary. He stayed up until three in the morning, finishing it.

He felt like a moron for working so hard to avoid talking to Philberton and Aelfred, but he couldn’t help it. They were just so dull. Whereas his Great-Grandmother Lacerta was actually pretty damn amazing. Both in person, and on paper.

He wished he had found more than one diary. The one he’d devoured had only covered about three years of her life, from shortly before she got married until she’d realized she was pregnant for the second time. Corinnea had been sort of a hilarious toddler, but far better were the sarcastic skewerings his great-grandmother gave the other wealthy pureblood mums she was forced to socialize with. Harry wished he could have attended those teas as a fly on the wall.

His Great-Grandmother Lacerta apparently had a habit of glibly putting the other witches down in such a way that they barely noticed they had been insulted. Then she would come home, write about what she’d said and done, and twist the pen-knife even harder.

Harry hoped _he_ didn’t piss her off.

. . . . . . . . .

The next morning Harry went back to Gringotts alone, and – working hard not to feel guilty about the goblin standing uselessly outside his vault – spent a full forty minutes searching hard for the last portrait that he supposedly had left behind there. During the search he found seven more of Lacerta’s journals, and he stacked them all by the door, eager to read them, as well. But when he found Aelfred’s wife Sophronia hidden behind a huge wooden sideboard, he whooped loudly enough to startle the goblin.

Harry brought Sophronia’s portrait into the library and hung her carefully next to Aelfred, who was so happy he could hardly say “thank you”. 

“I’ll leave you two be a while,” Harry said, but he was looking at Philberton, who nodded and muttered something about a lovely landscape on the third floor that he thought might be a nice place to nap in the sun.

Smiling, Harry closed the library door and went down to his kitchen to make dinner. This time, Malfoy was the one he was feeding. They had a mystery to figure out, and Harry never did that on an empty stomach. Not any more.

He wondered what Malfoy might wear.


	11. Eleven

“So we’re settled, then,” Malfoy said, patting the table once. He’d worn a truly awful shade of puce tonight. Harry was amazed anyone was willing to sell fabric that colour, let alone sew it into what were probably very expensive robes. 

“A great big party and a formal presentation. You’ll say a few teasing words, hand over the rattle, I’ll say something self-deprecating, and that should break this damn spell for good. We’ll make it like a wedding, or a charity gala. With a huge sit down dinner, and later a band, and dancing.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed, leaning back in his chair, full enough from the fancy meal he’d made that his belly hurt a little. His jeans were now far too tight and he wished he could wear comfy old jogging bottoms in front of Malfoy, but he was too vain. As a matter of fact, he’d rather gone all out to impress Malfoy tonight, cooking lobster ravioli with saffron cream sauce from a recipe in the newspaper, plus asparagus with Hollandaise and a real American-style apple pie. He knew he’d gone overboard, but he’d been unable to do otherwise, perhaps because of those things Hermione had said about his prowess in the kitchen. “We’ll just pop by great-grandmother’s portrait and ask her opinion first, but I think that sounds like just what she was talking about.”

Harry paused and poked at the last bite of pie he’d left on his plate. He wanted it in his mouth, but not in his stomach. He frowned at it. Meals this good were dangerous. Maybe he could unbutton his jeans. He could probably hide it from Malfoy if he pulled his navy blue jumper down farther over his waist.

“It’s good how comfortable you are with all this Muggle-born, er, stuff,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Malfoy asked.

“Well,” Harry said, as he stood and started to clear the table, “For all those years you believed in pure-blood superiority and all. Now you learn your own ancestors didn’t believe anything like that, and even made a bet about which of our families would win by marrying the first Muggle-born. So it’s clear you were wrong. Even your great-great-great-grandmother thinks so.”

Malfoy straightened in his chair and put his hands on the table. “ _One_ great-great-great-grandmother. Who didn’t like being a Malfoy. That’s hardly significant, in the greater picture.”

Harry put the dirty dishes down and turned to look fully at Malfoy’s face. “Really? That’s where you are with this? You’re being so incredibly helpful, I had no idea you still believed that stupid crap.”

“Of course I‘m being helpful,” Malfoy huffed. “This is my job. You’re paying me. That doesn’t mean I suddenly agree with all your blood mixing nonsense. Muggle-borns dilute Wizarding culture. That’s obvious.”

“But pure-blood superiority leads to inbred, sickly children, Malfoy.” Harry felt his anger rising. He tried to control it but he couldn’t stop his hands from waving around as he spoke. “You heard Lacerta and Verena. Hell, I have evidence of it in _my own family_. Aelfred and Sophronia had to have been in their, what, nineties when they finally had my Dad? That’s why there are two more generations in your family. Because mine was too inbred until my Dad married my Mum. How could having an only child at ninety be good for anyone? To struggle to have a baby for sixty, seventy years? For the baby to grow up with ancient parents? For his parents to die of old age while he was still at Hogwarts?”

Harry thought about how spoiled Snape always said James Potter was. Harry had been forced to admit, eventually, that Snape had a point. That brattiness was probably a side effect of advanced parental age as well. Harry didn’t want to say that to Malfoy, though. This conversation was making him feel defensive and angry. Why make it worse? He clenched his fists to keep from banging the table.

“And then Aelfred’s Dad Philberton, he and Lacerta, their babies kept dying, Malfoy. _Dying!_ A house full of dead pure-blooded babies, Malfoy! How could you think that’s a good thing?” Harry was shaking now. He hadn’t hit Malfoy, but that was about as far as his control still held. He couldn’t believe Malfoy still supported that pure-blood superiority filth after everything that had happened.

Malfoy blushed and bowed his head slightly. “I’m very sorry about the deaths, Potter, of course I am. I never meant to imply anything less than grief and sorrow about them. But you have no proof that those were caused by blood status, they could have been caused by anything!”

“Then let’s talk about this a different way, Malfoy. If Muggle-borns are ‘bad’ because they dilute pure-blood culture, then who should Muggle-borns marry?”

Malfoy sat up and answered quickly, as though nothing could be more obvious. “Other Muggle-borns, obviously. And half-bloods should marry half-bloods. Within two generations the half-bloods will be pure-bloods, and the Muggle-born will be pure-bloods within, oh, I guess four or five generations? And then the pure-bloods will have plenty of pure-bloods to marry and we won’t have an inbreeding problem.”

Harry put his hands on the table and looked down at Malfoy, who was apparently trying not to look disconcerted. “But how does that solve the ‘diluted culture’ problem, Malfoy?”

Malfoy looked startled. He didn’t seem to understand the question.

“If the Muggle-born and half-blood witches and wizards keep to themselves like that, then the future generations might be genetically pure-blooded enough for your standards, but they won’t be _of your culture_ at all. I mean, come on, Malfoy. Who would teach it to them? They’d have been shunned by your kind for generations, not taught your pure-blooded ways at all. Worse, why would they want to marry people who think so little of their parents and grandparents? So you wouldn’t have some sort of feeder system for pure-bloods. You’d have two separate societies almost immediately. And you know what?”

Harry sat down, he knew he had this.

“Unless your pure-bloods try to kill the rest of wizarding society _again_ , I think that, of those two separate societies, one would die out pretty fast. In your family, they only ever have one child. In my family, they have trouble making any children at all. Can the pure-bloods even wait until the Muggle-borns and half-bloods have become suitably pure-blooded? You’re related to the Blacks. And the Weasleys. And the LeStranges.”

Malfoy winced but Harry ignored him.

“And the Bulstrodes. And the Rosiers. Malfoy, you’re related to _everyone_. That’s why Lacerta and Verena were so eager for a Muggle-born to marry in. For all those reasons, Malfoy. All of them. Health of the children, and the family, and the culture, _and the magic_. All of it.”

Malfoy sat back, looking slightly gobsmacked. 

“Like it or not,” Harry said quietly, “there are Muggle-born wizards and witches. My mother came from somewhere, Malfoy, and let’s just try to imagine what the magical world, let alone the Muggle world, would look like if my mother and everyone like her _didn’t_ go to Hogwarts or the like, huh? There would be all these confused, untrained, magical loners running around the Muggle world. What do you think would happen to them if they didn’t go to Hogwarts? More to the point of self-preservation, what would happen to _us_?

“My point is, we need each other. Muggle-borns need to learn about the old ways, and we need someone to teach them to us.”

“You’re not a Muggle-born, Harry.”

“Close enough, Malfoy.”

“I…” Malfoy looked miserably uncomfortable. “I should probably go. I’ll see you tomorrow, when you come by to ask your great-grandmother about the party. All right?”

“Sure,” Harry said. He knew he’d won the argument. He’d have liked to hear Malfoy say it, but he didn’t need to. “I’ll Floo over around ten in the morning?”

“Er,” Malfoy said. “Yes. That sounds just fine.” He stood and walked toward Harry’s Floo. “I’ll…” he swallowed visibly. “I’ll be thinking… about what you said.”

Harry smiled, hoping it looked gracious, not voracious. “I appreciate that, Malfoy.”

. . . . . . . . .

“Marvelous!”

Great-Grandmother Lacerta loved the party idea. She even wanted to attend, along with “my dear Very.” She encouraged them to have it on Beltane. “Magic is feisty, ardent and spirited on those Pagan nights, boys!” She threw her arms open and Verena smiled indulgently at her. “You must have the bonfire and the maypole and the dancing! There must be fertility rites and the freedom to sneak off into the bushes!” She pointed a gnarled finger at them from her perch at the edge of the frame. “Beltane is the perfect night to make a ritual of giving that rattle to Malfoy to fulfill my promise magic!”

“Not to mention,” Malfoy said gratefully, “that gives us over six weeks. That’s more than enough time to plan it properly.”

“Who knew Arcturus’ tedium would breed as true as his stupidity?” Lacerta said viciously.

Malfoy straightened his back and shoulders and blanched, but he made no retort.

“Now stop,” Verena said mildly. She took Lacerta’s hand in her own and squeezed it. The witches looked at each other. “My greatly grand there is a nice young man, Certain. I’d appreciate a little more tact from you right now.”

Lacerta looked contrite, but Verena didn’t let go of her hand. After an uncomfortable pause, Lacerta turned to Malfoy, still holding Verena’s hand. “I apologize for my nasty words, young man. They were… not called for. I wasn’t fond of your ancestor, but he’s been dead for a hundred years now and I have no need to take that out on you.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows went up for the briefest moment, then he smoothed out his face and nodded once. “Your gracious apology is accepted, Mrs Potter.”

“It wasn’t gracious, but you have good manners and I’ll work harder to see you for yourself, son, and not your great-great-great-grandfather.” Lacerta looked down, and Verena leaned in a little closer to her. They were still holding hands. Harry thought he could see Verena squeeze Lacerta’s hand yet again.

“On that note, I took your advice. Very and I wandered around the Manor, into any portrait that would talk to us. Honestly, we’d been hiding out up here for far too long, and you were right. We needed to know more about what had been happening in the world since our deaths. We’d been avoiding Arcturus’ portrait, but it had become something far more than that, and it wasn’t wise or healthy anymore.”

“So we went wandering,” Verena took over after a pause, “and we learned about what this house had become for a while. We learned who Harry Potter is. We learned the things young Malfoy heard from his father about Muggle-born children, and we even had a House Elf start to read to us from a history book or two. Our eyes are far more open now.”

Verena paused this time, but Lacerta didn’t say anything. “It’s an honor to have someone like you in my home, young Harry,” Verena finally said.

Harry felt his face go hot, and he mumbled something he hoped they could tell was “Thank you.”

“You boys are sweet to come spend so much time with your ancient, painted grandmothers,” Verena said in a gentle voice. “But you have a party to plan now. So why don’t you two send Dincy in here with that history book. She’ll know which one. We’ll see you two when you hang us up in the garden for the party.”

Malfoy nodded to Verena and called to Dincy, who appeared immediately.

“Dincy,” Malfoy told her, “my Great-Great-Great-Grandmother Verena and her friend wish you to continue to read to them while your assistance is not required elsewhere. Please go fetch whatever books you have begun but not finished. You can leave them in this room between reading sessions.”

Dincy bowed and seemed about to vanish, when Verena interrupted. “Dincy?”

“Yes, Painted Mistress?”

Harry’s look of surprise must have been plain on his face, because instead of speaking to Dincy, Verena addressed Harry. “She calls me ‘Painted Mistress’ instead of just Mistress, because while a painted ancestor can still tell a House Elf to do things, my orders can never supercede those of a living member of the household.”

Harry nodded, thinking that this made a lot of sense, but Verena got a sly look on her face and leaned a little closer. “Does that make sense now, _Harry Potter_ dear?

Harry couldn’t understand what Verena was playing at, when Dincy began to squeal and pull at her own ears.

“Yes, Dincy,” Verena said with gentleness laid across her voice like a baby blanket. “It’s him. The real Harry Potter.”

Dincy was bouncing frantically on one foot now, and still squealing. She sounded like an injured piglet, and Harry had no idea what he should do to help.

“Dincy! Cease this tantrum!” Malfoy sounded embarrassed, but Dincy was in another place, unable to hear anything but her own emotions. Somehow her terrible squealing noises got louder.

Harry knelt down on one knee, attempting to put a hand on Dincy’s frantic shoulder. Verena and Lacerta simply watched quietly. They would have been impossible to hear, anyway, Harry thought.

“Dincy,” Harry said, feeling useless. “What’s the matter? Can I help?”

“Harry Potter wishes to help _Dincy_!” Dincy screamed it, as though stabbed. The distress bleeding from her was nearly tangible. “Harry Potter wishes to help Dincy! As though Harry Potter has not given Dincy everything! As though Harry Potter has not freed Dincy’s entire home from evil! As though Harry Potter has not saved Dincy from the snake, and Dincy’s Masters from prison and death! How did Dincy not know? How could Dincy not recognize? Harry Potter has been here and Dincy did not thank! Dincy showed no gratitude! Dincy is terrible Elf and Dincy wishes to, Dincy wishes to….”

Dincy slowed down and stared at Harry with enormous eyes full of both gratitude and horror.

“Dincy wishes what?” Harry tried, wincing at his accidental imitation of her grammar.

“Dincy wishes too many things all at the once,” Dincy said, wringing her hands.

“Let me guess,” Malfoy said, and he, too knelt down and put one hand on Dincy’s other shoulder. Dincy looked calmer as soon as Malfoy touched her gently.

“You feel like celebrating Harry’s accomplishments, thanking Harry personally, and also, at the same time, you think you deserve punishment for not doing those things the moment Harry first entered our home, last week. Is that accurate, Dincy?”

Dincy stared at Malfoy and slowly nodded her head.

“Then you’re forgiven,” Harry said quickly. “I didn’t introduce myself. I’m sure Malfoy didn’t say my name. And the last time I was here, during the War, my face was all swollen up with a hex. No one could have expected you to recognize me.”

Dincy just stared at Harry, then slowly turned her head to Malfoy. Malfoy nodded at her, but she turned to look at Harry again, so Harry nodded at her also. “It’s true,” he said, feeling hopeful that her new calmness would strengthen. He hated sadness. Watching others express misery or despair made him feel like a failure.

“We wanted you to know,” Lacerta said, looking at Dincy.

“We knew how much it would mean to you,” Verena added. Malfoy, Harry and Dincy all looked at them from the floor.

“Harry, why don’t you give Dincy a little handshake, or something,” Verena told him. “I think she could use a little reassurance. And then, if the three of you don’t mind, we really would enjoy it if Dincy would sit down in a nice, comfortable chair, and read to us some more. We, too, have things to learn.” Verena smiled at Lacerta, and Harry turned his attention back to Dincy, who seemed to have calmed back to normal.

“It’s nice to formally meet you,” Harry said, and stuck out his hand. Dincy looked at him with awe. Harry waggled his hand at her, and she took it. First in her own right, then with both of her hands. “It an honor is,” she said slowly. “Great honor. All House Elves need grateful to you to be, and all on your side. But Malfoy House Elf most of all. Lived in terror, we surely did. And you ended it. And now we free.”

“Did you know Dobby?” Harry couldn’t resist asking. He didn’t look at Malfoy.

“Dobby my cousin,” Dincy said, and an enormous tear gathered in one of her eyes.

“You said you’re free?” Harry said.

“Yes,” Dincy said, looking at the floor. “Free, but working here. Because this home, also want to serve. But free. One coin a month, one day off every other month.”

Harry nodded. This was the legal minimum, and it was what most House Elves had eventually come to accept, while vocally wishing for less.

“Then,” Harry said as he stood up, looking at Malfoy to make sure this was all right with him, as well, “if you want, the next time you have a day off, maybe you would like me to take you to visit Dobby’s gravestone? I would be happy to take you there. You could buy some flowers for him. With the coins you’ve earned.”

Dincy gazed up at Harry again. She looked torn, as though she wanted to say a thousand things. Instead, she nodded silently and shook his hands again, hard. Then she let go.

“Will owl?” She asked him.

“Please do owl me,” Harry said. “Are you ready to read now?”

“Dincy ready,” Dincy said, and she grinned.

Verena smiled at them as well, and Dincy picked up the book and headed toward the large chair which faced Verena and Lacerta’s portrait.

Harry and Malfoy slipped quietly from the room.


	12. Twelve

“No,” Harry told Hermione slowly, “it’s weird. We’re getting along strangely well right now. At first I was really uncomfortable, and he seemed to be too, but now… maybe it’s because we had this huge screaming match about Muggle-borns and pure-blood crap? He’s been ridiculously polite ever since.

“He still dresses like a funeral, which is annoying, but he never snaps at me anymore, and I hope I’ve stopped being nasty to him.” Harry swirled his fork through the remains of his salmon with dill sauce. “I think we’ve both stopped assuming that the other bloke is trying to be an arse.”

Hermione stared at Harry until he wanted to tell her to stop. Finally she asked him a question, but it wasn’t what he’d been expecting. “Why is it annoying that he dresses ‘like a funeral’?” she said, and then looked intently at him across the table while she finished the last of her roasted aubergine.

“Er,” Harry tried, but Hermione just continued to look at him, chewing slowly.

“Because he’s supposed to be pretty,” Harry finally said, blushing like a steam train. He hid behind his butter beer bottle until he drained it, and when he could look at Hermione again, she was frowning.

“I thought that might be why,” she said dourly, but she didn’t criticize Malfoy. Or Harry. She just finished her dinner.

That evening, after Hermione took the Knight Bus home, Harry put the sealed up rattle into a pile of ice which he had put inside a metal cauldron in the backyard. He put the snug lid onto the cauldron and was pleased to see that it fit perfectly, no gaps. “There,” he said grimly. “That should keep it from setting the damn house on fire.” He went inside, showered, and went to bed. Where he dreamed about Malfoy. But naked, not in ugly gray robes.

. . . . . . . . .

First they sat down at Harry’s kitchen table, with biscuits Harry’d baked, and Malfoy’s favourite tea, and came up with a guest list. This was oddly easy, as they decided they could invite pretty much everyone they knew, and let the chips fall where they might. Harry’s friends might not always get along with Malfoy’s friends, and vice versa, but they had a magical disaster to avert, here, and that took precedence over other things. They weren’t really planning a party to have fun, per say. The point was to fulfill the promise magic and shut it down.

Which is how the guest list made it out to three hundred forty eight people.

. . . . . . . . .

That night Harry lay in bed, tossing and turning and trying to ignore his erection. He’d tried to wank in the shower, and then again when he’d lain down, but when his mind refused to focus on pictures of _anyone in the universe_ who wasn’t Draco sodding Malfoy, Harry’d decided that there would be no wanking tonight.

His cock’s attitude seemed to be “good luck with _that_ , mate.”

Eventually he fell asleep, but he woke up at midnight with a stupid grin and sticky sheets. As well as the rapidly fading, dreamlike details of sixty-nining with Malfoy until Harry came hard and woke up.

. . . . . . . . .

They met many times over the next few weeks. Every time, Harry worried over what to wear, what to cook. Every time, Malfoy looked good to him, even when wearing his least flattering clothes. This was annoying, and distracting. But he couldn’t find a way to stop it. 


	13. Thirteen

“Funny, don’t you think, how nicely we’re getting along?” Harry sputtered out awkwardly as he pressed a third slice of lemon cake toward Malfoy.

“Do you think so?” Malfoy asked quietly, not pulling the slice any closer; instead putting two more items on his “to purchase” list.

Harry half-stood, in part to look over Malfoy’s shoulder. He’d written “maypole 1, heavy ribbon 9.” Harry could have sworn they’d planned that part of the party, though?

“I,” he swallowed and sat down again. They were at perpendicular corners. Sometimes their knees brushed under the table. It made Harry’s knees weaken. He was glad they were spending most of this meeting sitting down. He was even more glad that Hermione wasn’t here and would not be until tomorrow for dinner.

“You still haven’t told me whether we’re hiring a caterer or you’re doing all the cooking,” Malfoy said calmly.

“I, what?” Harry said, completely thrown. “I can’t cook for nearly four hundred people!”

“No?” Malfoy said, sounding utterly calm. He looked at Harry, his face impassive, his robes a sallow gray. “I suppose that would be a lot of work. It’s just that you clearly enjoy it.” He paused and looked down at his list again. “And, you’re very good,” he said then, more quietly.

Harry felt a blush steal over his own cheeks even as he saw a complimentary one do the same for Malfoy. He felt slightly bolder at this, and so sat up straighter.

“Yes,” he said, trying to sound firm, “I do think we are getting along. Well. Which part did you disagree with?”

“What makes you think I disagreed?” Malfoy asked his list, instead of Harry.

“Don’t you, then?” Harry said, still hoping this conversation was going all right. “Only what you said, you sounded like you thought….” He paused, nervous to say more.

“Thought?” Malfoy said eventually, now looking into Harry’s eyes, finally; a blush still pinking his pretty cheeks.

“You said, ‘Do you think so?’,” Harry repeated as exactly as he could, trying to feign certainty. “That sounds like you _don’t_ think so. But I do think we are getting along. Becoming friendly, and all. I like it. It feels good to get along with you.” Harry was starting to lose his confidence and he looked away. Malfoy wasn’t saying anything! Harry was getting stupidly repetitive but Malfoy wasn’t saying anything.

“Doesn’t it?” Harry said, toward the table now.

Malfoy stayed silent for a long time, many heartbeats, all of which Harry could hear. Loud in his chest.

Finally Malfoy dragged the cake toward himself and took a large bite. He chewed slowly, swallowed, sipped his tea, and spoke. “This cake is honestly marvelous,” he said very quietly, and began writing down more things Harry could have sworn they’d planned together the previous week.

. . . . . . . . .

“No,” Harry said, bracing himself for Hermione’s anger. “We are definitely not hiring a hall. You don’t have to go inside. You don’t even have to come to the damn party. But we are having the party at Malfoy Manor, and you can’t change my mind, Hermione, because the budget for this party is overwhelming and halls with huge fields for bonfires attached are both expensive and booked for Beltane by now!”

“I,” Hermione said, then she stopped and looked at Harry. “I understand. You aren’t made of money, and I’m sorry.” She cut her salad into smaller pieces for a few moments while neither of them said anything. Then she put her knife and fork down and reached across the table to put her hand on Harry’s. “I think it’s time I met Malfoy. Again. As adults. Dinner, perhaps?”

“Oh,” Harry said, and he stopped. “Er, well. Yes.” Then he hesitated. “I suppose.”

“I can be here any of my usual nights. Is that all right?”

“I’ll check with him, but, er, sure. I’m sure that will be fine.” Harry felt a little faint, but he resolutely ignored it and cut himself another piece of lamb. It would be fine.

. . . . . . . . .

“So, er, Hermione is coming for dinner tonight too.”

“Of course. I can leave a bit early, I understand.”

“No, no. You don’t understand. I mean, er, Hermione and I, we’re having dinner with you. Here. I invited both of you to dinner. Tonight.”

“At the same time? I don’t want to seem rude, but do you think that’s wise?” Malfoy looked nervous.

Harry put his elbows on the table and gripped at his hair with his hands. He knew it was a mess before, why not make it worse? “I have no idea if it’s ‘wise,’” he finally said, “but I think it has to happen. I mean, she asked, and I couldn’t say no, you know? She’s noticed how different things are between us, and I guess, she said she thought you two should meet again. ‘As adults.’ We did it, so I figure you two can do it too. Right?”

“You _want_ me to interrupt a romantic dinner with your girlfriend?”

Harry’s jaw dropped open and he stared at Malfoy. “What?” he managed, but he couldn’t say anything else. Malfoy hadn’t said anything so blatantly wrong in… in _years_.

Malfoy looked uncertain. “She’s your girlfriend now, right? I mean, everyone knew she was with Weasley, Ronald, I mean. Then Ronald left the country and she started dating you, didn’t she? You talk about her all the time, she’s over here all the time. I thought she was, well, living here?” Malfoy’s cheeks were fiery red now, and his hands were under the table. He couldn’t look at Harry’s face at all, instead looking at something behind Harry’s head.

“You have never yet once seen her in this house,” Harry said, mostly because it was the first thing he thought to say.

“Well, no, but you said she had matriculated at a law school? Slycamore Priddle Legal Academy, I think you mentioned? One of the finest in all Europe. I assumed you were very proud, but also that she was, you know, extremely busy. Always at the library and in class.”

“She is busy, exactly like that, yes. But she’s my best friend, not my girlfriend! She just eats dinner here and watches telly with me a few nights a week. She sleeps at her parents’ house! She always takes the Knight Bus home!” Harry waved his hands around in desperation, trying to make sure Malfoy understood how crazy this was. “She can’t Floo home, her parents are Muggles and don’t have a Floo! She hates apparition, too, not that I can explain that…” Harry realized he was babbling and tried to stop. “But anyway, no, she is not, not, _not_ my girlfriend. Merlin, I’d rather date Ron. I’d rather date… you!”

Harry’s face erupted with heat as he desperately longed for an asteroid to hit his house and save him from the worst embarrassment he’d experienced since the last time he’d made a complete arse of himself in front of Malfoy.

Nothing of the sort occurred. Nothing at all occurred, as it happened. He simply sat in desperate, miserable silence staring at his hands in his lap and waited for Malfoy to do something, or the doorbell to ring, or an owl to come to the window, or just anything, really.

“You’d… rather… date… me?” Malfoy spoke so tentatively, so quietly. Harry almost missed the question over the thudding of his heart and the burning in his face and chest.

“It isn’t that I’m, er, asking you out or anything,” Harry told the table. “I just mean that, you know, I’m gay. I know you’re straight, I’m not going to do anything rude or anything.” He chanced a look up at Malfoy, who didn’t look horrified, disgusted or angry, thank Merlin. Nonetheless, he had to look back at the table to have the courage to keep speaking. “I’m just trying to make it clear that I’m not dating Hermione.”

“She’s not your type,” Malfoy said, sounding like he was trying to be jocular.

“Quite,” Harry agreed, and he looked up at Malfoy again, this time attempting to grin at him. Malfoy managed to ignore the lopsided, uncertain quality of Harry’s smile, and he smiled back. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Malfoy stood.

“I should probably go….”

Harry stood too quickly and had to grab for his chair before it tipped over. “Oh, right, okay. Sure. Er. I can walk you to the Floo.”

They both moved for the kitchen door, saw what the other was doing and stopped to let the other go first. Then they both started again, simultaneously. Harry couldn’t help but laugh nervously, and Malfoy joined in. “You first,” Harry tried, making a dramatic wave toward the door. “You’re my guest,” he said when Malfoy didn’t start; then he was able to follow Malfoy to the Floo.

Saying goodbye at the Floo was a little awkward but then it was over, and Harry took his stairs two at a time to get up to his bed and wank. He felt guilty, but he also knew it was hopeless to fight it. The last time he’d tried he’d ended up needing to do a half dozen cleaning charms in the middle of the night.


	14. Fourteen

Harry put his tea down and picked up Lacerta’s diary again. He wasn’t seeing Malfoy and Hermione until six that evening and dinner was well on the way. The roast was marinating, he’d carefully cleaned all the lentils and all the sugar snap peas, and the salad was actually done and both refrigerated and under a good stasis charm. He had plenty of time to relax.

  
   


> May 2, 1868  
>  Dear Merlin, it finally happened. Finally! We’ve been half expecting (and devoutly hoping for) something like this for ten years! Very went “home” yesterday afternoon and caught Arcturus the Arse in flagrante delicto with that stable boy he hired fresh out of Hogwarts. Even better, the stable boy was ploughing Arcturus! He’ll lose all social standing if this gets out, not to mention his seat on the Wizengamot, and my brilliant Very, who never misses a trick, confronted him right away. Well, she waited until he’d sprayed pure white evidence all over the straw, then she just walked right up and tapped her _husband_ on the shoulder. 
> 
> Apparently even fit, nineteen year old stable boys are capable of having heart attacks. Fancy that.
> 
> Anyway, of course Very got her way. My midwife confirmed just this morning: she is pregnant with a daughter (I suspect Arcturus used some of the filth he put in the straw, but as long as the baby is healthy, who cares?) Very’s got the baby naming rights in writing, and the house elves have moved every last one of her belongings into _my_ house. She’s even got a damn nice annual allowance. Again, in writing. And higher than we budgeted for, when we had tried to plan ahead.
> 
> Philberton sputtered a little, but I pouted at him and made my eyes go all wide, and when that only half worked I swallowed my pride and sat in his lap and ... wiggled. He disgusts me so deeply, but I’ll do damn near anything for my precious Very.
> 
> And she’s free! She’s finally truly and completely free! And soon we will have a baby to raise together! I can hardly wait. She’s even chosen the name: Sophronia Amy, after her own dear, wonderful mother, Sophrenne Amelie. Life is looking up!
> 
> Lacerta

  
 

   
Harry read the last few lines again. He ran a finger over the ink, but nothing about the words changed. He stared. Then he sent Malfoy an owl and went to his library to speak with Aelfred and Sophronia.

Malfoy appeared on Harry’s doorstep with a loud crack less than half an hour later. Harry opened the door before Malfoy could knock and let him in without saying a word. “I’m sure you want to read it for yourself,” he said simply, and handed Lacerta’s diary over with a ragged scrap of paper marking the page.

Malfoy opened the little book and read Lacerta’s May 2 entry in the vestibule, still wearing his fur coat and hat. 

He read it through twice. Harry could tell by the way his eyes moved, and the way he held the small, leather bound book. When he was done he handed the book back to Harry and hung his own coat and hat on the coatrack. 

Silently, Harry turned and lead Malfoy to the kitchen. Neither of them spoke as Harry quickly magicked up a pot of very strong tea. 

“So,” Malfoy finally said, after gulping down half a cuppa. “We’re cousins, then. Your paternal grandmother is my great-great-aunt.”

“Grandmother Sophronia confirmed it,” Harry agreed quietly. “My grandmother is a Malfoy,” Harry said. “I wonder why no one ever thought to mention it before?”

“From this entry,” Malfoy gently tapped the cover of Lacerta’s diary, “it looks like she wasn’t raised by her father, or in the Manor. She was practically a…”

“Bargaining chip,” Harry said, still amazed.

“I was actually going to say bribe,” Malfoy said, still looking stunned. “But anyway, I wonder if people just thought of her as a Potter from the beginning. Even though she was really a Malfoy, born of a Malfoy marriage, and full younger sister to the acknowledged heir.”

Malfoy drank more of his tea, then put it down and stared at the cover of Lacerta’s book. “I wonder how her brother felt about all this. He would have been my great-great-grandfather. Achaius Malfoy.”

“We could try to find a portrait of him and ask,” Harry said, still feeling a mess of emotions that wavered between amazement and horror.

“If you don’t mind,” Malfoy said slowly, “I think I’d like to wait.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Harry said, feeling relieved. He didn’t particularly want to talk to Achaius either. And he definitely didn’t want to talk to Arcturus. He could never be sympathetic to parents who abandoned their children. Never.

“I do need to ask you something, though,” Harry said, looking at Malfoy’s hands. Malfoy waited silently and Harry took a deep breath and then blurted out his fears. “Am I going to be despised? For being gay? Like Arcturus?”

“I hope not,” Malfoy said, “because…” he took an audible breath and gripped the edge of the table, hard. Harry looked up to see that Malfoy’s face had gone white. “Because I….” he paused again and Harry waited impatiently for more words that didn’t come.

“Are you gay too?” Harry eventually whispered, when Malfoy said nothing else. 

“I should go,” Malfoy whispered, but Harry reached across the table and grabbed one wrist, hard. 

“No,” he begged. “Please don’t. I won’t tell a soul. Please finish your sentence. Whatever it was. Malfoy!”

Malfoy looked down at his wrist caught in Harry’s grip. He flexed his fingers open, then closed again, then open. He flattened his fingers out on the table into a star. Then the other hand as well.

“Yes,” he finally managed. “I… like boys too.”

“So our ancestors are going to hate us,” Harry said in a flat voice. He let go of Malfoy’s wrist. “I’ve finally found all these relatives and they’re all going to hate me because I can’t marry a girl. Not and be happy,” he finished. 

“Are you sure you couldn’t?” Malfoy said. “Not even a really brilliant girl, who understood? I always thought Pansy….”

“How could that be fair to them?” Harry asked. He’d thought this through with Ginny, who had been quite sympathetic to the very point Malfoy was currently making. Eventually, however, she decided that she needed a “real lover.” That had helped Harry understand how desperately he wanted and needed the same thing.

“Ginny and Brigit don’t seem to have any problems,” Harry realized. “If it’s okay for lesbians…”

“I guess it depends on whose approval you want,” Malfoy said glumly.

“Oh,” Harry said, thinking of the portraits in his library. The Weasleys still loved him, he knew that. They’d probably still love him if he painted himself orange and dedicated his life to ferrets and bonsai, he realized. It wasn’t them he was concerned about. It was his _new_ family members. The really old, dead ones. It was odd how much they all suddenly mattered to him. Even the desperately boring ones, like Philberton.

Harry swallowed, thinking of Philberton. What a strange and painful life he must have lead, loving a wife who thought him an idiot and a bore. Raising another man’s daughter as his own so his wife would love him, and still not succeeding. 

Lacerta might not see it, Harry decided, but Philberton was a really good, solid bloke. Even if he _was_ dull.

“I can’t think about this any more, Malfoy.” Harry finally said, and he stood up. “Help me make dinner?”

“On one condition,” Malfoy said, sounding shaky. “Call me Draco?” Draco’s smile went from uncertain to mischievous. He stood up. “After all, you’re a Malfoy now, too.”

. . . . . . . . .

By the time Hermione arrived just before six, Harry and Draco were laughing and joking together. The evening was only slightly awkward, and by the time Hermione was ready to summon the Knight Bus, her last comment to Harry was that “learning that you have Malfoy blood was honestly the least bizarre part of the whole evening.” 


	15. Fifteen

Harry was going insane. It was the only explanation. Draco looked at him. Draco touched him: his hand, his shoulder, once even the small of Harry’s back. Draco flirted slightly, coyly, occasionally. 

Draco _liked_ him. 

But Draco absolutely wouldn’t let Harry so much as gaze longingly at Draco’s arse. “Stop that! We have work to do,” was all Harry ever seemed to hear. 

And work they did. A caterer was hired, a menu planned. The ballroom was decorated and every possible traditional Beltane accessory purchased and set up. Every one of three hundred forty eight invitations were owled and the corresponding RSVP received and logged. A spreadsheet was created in a huge, ancient book, and every single detail was noted carefully in it. Two hundred ninety four guests were expected at Malfoy Manor; six in the evening on Beltane. 

Narcissa, even, seemed cautiously pleased about the party and her son’s role in it. She’d taken the news of Harry having a previously unknown Malfoy as his grandmother with great joy, however, and Harry felt very welcome in her home.

But not Draco’s bedroom. Never Draco’s bedroom.

Truly, Harry was going to go insane.

. . . . . . . . .

The morning of the party Harry couldn’t stand it any longer. “Will you go off in the woods with anyone, then?”

“Not just anyone,” Draco said quietly. He wore plain black today, buttoned up to the neck despite the beautiful weather. Despite the bloke being an unrepentant pure-blooded Pagan, Harry might have been willing to say Draco looked like a CoE priest in the thing. Harry knew you had it really bad for a bloke when he was dressed like a bloody bishop and all you wanted to do was undress him.

Draco’s back was to Harry as he fussed, yet again, with the decorations hung around the edge of the room, where the walls met the ceiling. Laurel garlands wrapped with violets. Harry loved them, but they looked quite perfect and he wanted Draco to look at _him_.

“What the hell does that mean?” Harry said, petulantly. “I wouldn’t go off into the woods with just anyone either, but that’s because I want to go off into the woods with _you_.”

Draco straightened his shoulders, stood up taller and turned around slowly. “Harry,” he said, in a conciliatory voice.

“Oh shit,” Harry said out loud, and he sat down in the nearest chair.

“It’s just Beltane,” Draco said, apparently undeterred. “It’s nothing to do with me, this… interest.”

“Lust, Draco,” Harry said flatly. “The word is lust.”

Draco blushed and rushed ahead. “Whatever you wish to call it, I am quite sure it is circumstantial and not about me at all. You and I hated each other until quite recently and the idea that you would grow to have some sort of... natural romantic or sexual interest in me,” he paused long enough to cast a cooling charm at his own face, then barreled on again, “is preposterous. Really. I am quite certain this will all blow over tonight and we will be able to move on far more easily after this is over. Now please, go Floo the damn caterer like I asked and find out why the hell he has not yet arrived!”

Dejected, Harry did as he was told. Maybe Draco was right? Well, he certainly was right about the caterer, and that was all that mattered right at that moment.

. . . . . . . . .

Hermione proved unable to enter the house. There were several dozen guests who preferred not to, as that happened, but the evening’s weather was delightful and it was easy to accommodate them all with outside tables for dinner. When it came time for Harry to present the rattle to Draco, they simply opened all the French doors between the ballroom and the outdoor tables, and Harry used _Sonorous_ as well.

He watched Lacerta and Verena as he spoke. Their dual portrait hung right over the dessert table.

“Welcome to our Beltane party,” Harry began. “Beltane is a new tradition for me, but that shouldn’t surprise anyone here. Everyone knows I was raised by Muggles, and therefore I need a little help from my friends to learn the old Wizarding ways.”

Harry smiled at Draco, who nodded once, looking regal. However, Harry now knew him well enough to see the surprise he was hiding. He apparently hadn’t expected Harry to mention that.

“Speaking of friends, I thought Draco Malfoy and I were becoming friends as we worked together to solve the mystery of this messed up magical object I found in my vault. Indeed, we did become friends, and then we took it a step further. No, Draco and I aren’t married now, but we are family!”

A titter ran through the assembled guests, but Harry pretended not to notice. “The lovely ladies hung over the cheesecake and fruit trays, are Lacerta Potter, my great-grandmother, and Verena Malfoy, also my great-grandmother!”

This time his guests gasped quite loudly, but again Harry ignored them and kept talking.

“You see,” Harry said, feeling bizarrely comfortable speaking to such a large crowd, “when my dear friend and ex girlfriend had a baby with her new wife,”

Here Harry paused for Brigit and Ginny to jovially wave their baby boy’s hands to the rest of the guests. Little Septimus grinned and drooled at everyone, balancing and bouncing his little feet on one mother’s knees.

“I went looking in my family vault for a suitable baby gift. I found something very nice, but I also found something that seemed to be cursed: this cute little silver rattle.” Harry held the rattle up, sealed into a solid block of ice. “Everyone I met told me to take it to Draco Malfoy -- the wizarding world’s new expert on obnoxious items!”

Everyone laughed and Harry smiled at them. When had communicating his thoughts become fun?

“Draco lived up to his new reputation and quickly determined that the toy was suffering under an old magical burden. One imposed, as it turned out, by the Grandmothers over there!” Harry pointed at Lacerta and Verena, and they both waved at him gleefully.

“Lacerta and Verena had placed a bet, you see. Whichever pure-blooded family, the Potters or the Malfoys, would win? And how would the family win? Can you guess if I tell you that my Dad won the bet for his Grandmother when he married my Mum? My _Muggle-born_ Mum?”

Many of the guests looked quite frankly surprised at this. The younger they were, the more shocked their expression. Some of Harry’s oldest guests, however, looked sadly knowing. Elphias Doge and his ancient mother, the two oldest guests, looked positively sage.

“So, having won the bet, my father was meant to jokingly tease Malfoy’s father and hand over the rattle, telling Lucius Malfoy, in essence, ‘your turn’!”

A loud gasp of shocked laughter rocked the room, and Harry grinned at his guests. “Indeed,” he said, and winked at them. “But of course it did not happen that way, and so the obligation has come to me. Draco?”

Draco stood up and walked briskly toward Harry, grinning all the way.

“Yes, Harry?”

“I have something for you, it would seem!”

“And what would that be?” Draco joked. He leaned back on one foot and put his hands on his hips, as though wary of what Harry might be wanting to give him.

“Just a sweet little silver heirloom,” Harry said. “Something two of my great-grandmothers thought made a fine symbol.” Harry showed the ice-bound rattle to Draco. It dripped onto the ballroom floor.

“And why is it mine now?” Draco said, playing along nicely.

“Why, because Lacerta won the bet, and Verena lost!”

“But, Draco said slowly, “I thought Lacerta _and_ Verena were _both_ your family?”

“Don’t confuse me with the facts, Draco!” Harry bellowed, and everyone laughed.

Draco gingerly took the rattle from Harry’s hand, and it dripped more water onto the floor. He waved it around and a few guests took photographs.

“Now you’re supposed to go marry a Muggle-born girl,” Harry said, far more quietly, “but I have to admit, I _really_ hope you don’t.”

Draco blushed bright red and nodded once at Harry. Then they bowed to each other and Draco strode off to stash the rattle in a bucket of ice that had previously held a lot of champagne.

“Everyone,” Harry said, and spread his hands out wide. “It’s Beltane. Let’s all dance and make merry!”

With that, the hired band started up, and the maypole ribbons began to sway invitingly. Guests jumped up from their chairs and soon everyone was outside enjoying the bonfire, weaving maypole ribbons as they danced, and even sneaking off into the bushes, though the sun was still quite high in the sky.

Draco and Harry stood over the champagne bucket and looked at the frozen rattle. They couldn’t yet tell if anything had changed.

Looking up into Draco’s eyes, Harry extended a hand and took a deep breath. “Care to dance?” he asked, but Draco simply shook his head and slipped away. Harry hardly saw him for the next five hours.

. . . . . . . . .

Harry was sitting near the maypole watching by firelight as the ribbons slowly unraveled themselves when Hermione and George approached him. Hermione sat near Harry on the grass. The bonfire still warmed Harry’s back, though by now it had died down to a manageable level. Ritual determined that they weren’t supposed to douse it until dawn, so Harry had decided, somewhat morbidly he thought, to wait until then and pour the water himself. It wasn’t as though he had anything more enticing awaiting him.

He wondered for the hundredth time where Draco was, and who Draco was with, when Hermione patted his hand and Harry nearly rocketed out of his own skin.

“Augh!” he yelled as he spun toward Hermione.

“So sorry I startled you,” she said sheepishly. “I didn’t realize how deeply you had gone into your thoughts.”

“Hmph,” Harry said and, pulling his legs in, put his chin on his knee.

“I saw Draco tidying up inside the ballroom about an hour ago,” she ventured. “He may not be ‘celebrating’ with you, but he isn’t off in the treeline with anyone else, either.”

Harry sighed into his knees.

“I really liked your speech,” Hermione tried.

“Me too,” George added. Surprised to hear a second voice, Harry turned around to see who was with Hermione. Of course it was George. He thought about saying something scathing about the two of them meeting up or sneaking off, but thought better of it. His misery did not need to create company.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “I’ve been writing it in my head for ages now.”

“You were really funny,” Hermione said. “But you also made some good points. I think Lacerta’s diary has been rubbing off on you, as they say.”

Harry turned his head to look at Hermione now. “Really? That’s quite a compliment, if you mean it. I love reading Lacerta’s journals. She’s a really engaging writer.”

“Well,” Hermione said, “I think you’ve learned some things from her. Maybe she won’t end up the only writer in your family.”

She stood up and took George’s hand. George looked at Harry a bit defiantly, but Harry deliberately said nothing. They were adults. He just hoped someone else was going to break it to Ron. He really had no interest in being the one to send that owl.

“George is going to see me home to my parents’ house, now,” Hermione said, looking a little embarrassed herself.

“That’s nice of him,” Harry said, deliberately mild. “Goodnight. Thanks so much for coming, both of you.” He turned back to the maypole and let them go on their way.

When Luna approached him, perhaps half an hour later, she managed not to startle him. Ironically enough, Luna had chosen to wear, not radishes, but little silver bells in her ears. Their soft chimes sounded almost exactly like the rattle, the first time Harry had shaken it back in his vault. Harry heard her earrings so he turned to greet her, and smiling, Luna sat next to him on the grass.

“Such a complicated party,” Luna said happily, and Harry nodded glumly. 

“That it is,” he agreed.

“But that isn’t what I came to talk to you about, of course,” Luna said.

“No?” Harry said, and turned to see her face.

“Well of course not,” Luna said, patting his hand. “You made it that way. No, the reason I wanted to talk to you is your speech. I want you to write it down. I want to publish it. You can change it a bit, but I want you to write for the Quibbler. I think it will be perfect. And if it is, I expect I shall need you to keep writing. An article every week, I think. Daddy thinks so too, though it was my idea. We need you to write about corruption and change. Change happens, you know,” she nodded at Harry, who nodded back, slowly. “Things, they stay the same even while they are changing with speed. It’s a new fact for me, but not for you, I think. That’s why I need you to be the new columnist.”

Harry looked into Luna’s eyes and she looked back, as calm and unruffled as she always was. “I’ll do it,” he said firmly, and stuck out a hand. Luna shook it. “I’ll do it and make you proud, Luna. Actually, I think I have a whole hell of a lot to say.”

Smiling, Luna kissed Harry once on the cheek, then meandered off without another word. Satisfied in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time, Harry stared at the dancing maypole ribbons and thought about things he needed to tell people. And how he would say them.

. . . . . . . . .

The sunrise pierced Harry’s sleep and he stretched, yawning. He was covered with dew, having slept on the grass between the nearly dead bonfire and the still dancing ribbons of the maypole. He hadn’t spoken to Draco all night long, since his request for a dance had been turned down.

His wand was still safely strapped to his right arm so he dried himself off, poured plenty of water on the last ashes of the Beltane bonfire and looked around. The lawn was a mess, strewn with detritus of multiple kinds: food, laurel garland, plates and glasses, colourful ribbons, ashes, and even some discarded clothing. Luckily they had Dincy to help with cleanup, but Harry would bother her later. Right now he would carry Lacerta and Verena back upstairs.

First, though, he ended the spell that made the ribbons of the maypole dance. Their endless cheerful invitations were really getting on his nerves.

Lacerta and Verena were asleep in their portrait, so Harry carefully levitated it off the wall and headed up to their room with the painting bobbing gently behind him. They woke after he got them ‘home,’ as he tried to hang them back up.

“Sorry,” he said as they stretched and rubbed their eyes. “I was trying not to wake you. I hope you liked the party?”

He straightened their portrait carefully with his hand and sat down on a chair. It was no longer covered, Harry noticed, as though this room was no longer shut off and ignored, but a part of the house again. He smiled his approval.

“It was lovely, Harry,” Verena said politely. “Thank you so much for making sure we would be there.”

“As it were,” Lacerta joked, and leaned against Verena.

“So,” Harry said slowly. There was something he’d been needing to ask, but he hadn’t managed to make himself do it. Now was clearly the time, though. He sat up straight and forced the words out. “Why didn’t you tell me Verena is my great-grandmother, too?”

His great-grandmothers looked at each other once, then Verena began to speak. “I expect this will be hard for you to understand, since, as an orphan, family blood means so much to you, but Sophronia was never really a Malfoy. Arcturus and I were intensely unhappy together from the first night we had to spend as a married couple, and when Sophronia was born, well… I didn’t give her a surname.”

Lacerta squeezed Verena’s hand and Verena looked up at the ceiling, but she continued to speak.

“I know you’ve been reading Certain’s journals, but I don’t know how much you know. I wasn’t meant to have another child with Arcturus. The Malfoy tradition is one healthy son. It’s a simple way to consolidate wealth and power, which have been important to them for many generations now. Sophronia was…”

“A bribe,” Harry said flatly, “so you wouldn’t tell the world that Arcturus was homosexual.” He decided, at the last second, that ‘gay’ was too modern and slangy.

“So you have read that much,” Verena said. “Yes, he wouldn’t have wanted it known that he was an invert, a Sodomite. But society has a different word for it now, yes?”

“I usually say ‘gay’,” Harry said, wondering if he would be able to come out to them now. 

They nodded, and Verena continued. “So Sophronia, who is both my daughter and your grandmother, was technically a Malfoy, but no one cared. She was part of the Potter household unofficially, and then she and Aelfred fell madly in love and got married, and she was part of the Potter household quite officially after that.”

“Did Arcturus curse her infertile?” Harry had been wondering about this. It just wasn’t normal to be able to have a baby, but not until you were ninety-something years old.

“Oh dear!” Verena said, looking upset. “No, poor Aelfred and Sophronia weren’t cursed, just terribly unlucky. But then they did finally have your father so I guess it must have been all right. We were both dead by then, of course.”

“I don’t know about ‘all right,” Harry said morosely. “They were so old by then that they didn’t get to see Dad finish Hogwarts, let alone grow up or get married or have me.”

“Yes,” Lacerta agreed, “that is unfortunate. They did miss out on all that and it did cause them sadness. But buck the hell up, child,” she said fiercely, “you _did_ happen and now their portraits can love you nearly as well. Life is pain! Enjoy it anyway!”

Harry stared at Lacerta with surprise. 

“So you won’t mind if I never marry a Muggle-born girl?” he said, feeling energized and defiant.

“How do you know you won’t?” Verena said mildly. “Have you fallen in love with a pure-blood? Because if you have, we’d like to meet her.”

“You’ve met him,” Harry said nervously. “I fancy Draco like mad. And I won’t be marrying a Muggle-born girl _or_ a pure-blood girl. I’m gay.”

“Well, that’s a good reason,” Lacerta said enthusiastically. 

“At least no one will be forcing you to marry one against your will!” Verena agreed, smiling broadly now.

“It doesn’t upset you that I’m gay?” Harry said, still on edge about it.

“Of course not,” Lacerta said, sounding annoyed. That would be ridiculous. After all, we are as well.”

Verena rolled her eyes gently, and smiled at Harry. “We were lovers for many, many years, my dear.”

“Of course we were, stupid boy. Pay attention!” Lacerta was puffed up now, ready for a confrontation. Apparently, Harry had deeply insulted his great-grandmothers.

“Oh,” he said, stupidly. Now it suddenly seemed so obvious. “I should have realized.”

“It’s all right,” Verena said gently. “I remember youth. You can’t imagine anyone above a certain age has any feeling below the neck,” she said, and then she giggled.

Lacerta gave her a twisted half-smile, and leaned against her again. They put their arms around each other and Harry yawned accidentally.

“You find a bed and go to sleep, child,” Lacerta said. “We’re exhausted too, so you must be almost done for. We’ll talk another time.”

“Whenever you like,” Verena added, and then covered her own mouth as she yawned herself.

“Ok,” Harry said, and he bowed slightly, then _Apparated_ home from their room and fell on top of his bed fully dressed. He was fast asleep almost immediately.

 


	16. Sixteen

Harry was awakened hours later by a doorbell sound. It rang loudly through his bedroom and his head, and he sat up, stunned. He’d slept well into the afternoon, and his doorbell was ringing off the wall.

“Wait,” he said to himself, confused, as he rushed down the steps from his bedroom to the front door, “I don’t _have_ a doorbell.”

Draco was waiting on the front step, holding a large metal urn. Harry let him in and saw the problem immediately. The rattle was no longer sealed up in ice, the ice in the bucket was all melted, the rattle’s chime was louder than Harry could ever recall, and warm water vapour was rising rapidly from the whole mess.

“Shit,” Harry said. “Let’s head back to Lacerta and Verena right away and find out what they think.”

Draco nodded and grabbed Harry’s arm. Harry grabbed at the metal tub and held on as Draco _Side-Alonged_ Harry right into the portrait room, which was empty.

“Grandmother!” Draco yelled out, and both of them walked into their frame, looking tired and worried.

“It didn’t work!” Harry said, his fear spiralling. Now the water vapour was turning to steam.

Both women looked at the steaming champagne bucket and then they looked at each other. Verena frowned, and Lacerta shook her head. Then she looked at Harry and Draco. “There’s nothing left but honesty,” she said dourly. “Sorry boys, I really thought the party was exactly what you needed.”

“I think that was the first half,” Verena added, sounding conciliatory. “It wasn’t in vain. But yes, now you two have to tell each other exactly how you feel. Go now, in private. Harry’s house, I think, far away from the portraits in the library. You should have privacy. Go!”

This time Draco _Side-Alonged_ Harry into Grimmauld’s basement, a stone floored, cold room, fully underground. Draco put the champagne bucket on the floor and Harry cast a quick spell, turning the entire puddle of warming water into a solid block of ice. Then he ran his fingers through his hair and tried to tell Draco the truth.

“I still fancy you,” he began. “It isn’t Beltane anymore, and the party is over, and dammit, Draco, I still fancy you like mad.”

“You think this is what they meant?” Draco said, sounding a bit panicked. “I thought they were talking about the Muggle-born stuff!”

“Well, you know how I feel about that, Draco!” Harry paced to the wall and back, unable to stand still.

“Well I _don’t_ know how I feel about it!” Draco responded, and he clutched nervously at his sleeves. “I’m so confused! I thought I understood everything, but this whole situation has me upside down! First I thought the Malfoy family had always been all about pure-blood pride, but then I learned we haven’t. I thought being gay made me an embarrassment to my ancestors, but actually, I inherited the trait directly from a head of the Malfoy line. I thought you and I were nothing alike and had nothing in common, but as it turns out, we’re _family_. I thought there could be nothing good about Muggle-borns at all, that they were a security risk and a mistake, but now I think maybe they’re the success of the whole system! This damn assignment has turned my life topsy-turvy!”

“Er, that’s my job in your life?” Harry tried to joke. He was sure he’d made a mistake when Draco’s eyes went enormous and his mouth went a bit slack, but then Draco’s surface cracked a bit, and he giggled. Harry giggled in relief. Then they both laughed louder. They laughed hysterically together for several minutes until a terrible gunshot noise ricocheted through the stone basement. 

The ice in the champagne bucket had cracked in two, and the rattle was chiming again.

“That wasn’t the kind of honesty they meant,” Harry said, suddenly solemn again.

“Apparently,” Draco said.

“I’ll try again,” Harry said, and he took a deep breath. His heart rate was revving up. This wasn’t going to be easy but he had to do it. “It wasn’t Beltane, Draco. It wasn’t. I’ve been wanking over you, dreaming about touching you, all of it. For most of the time we’ve been working together on this stupid silver rattle. I can hardly stop thinking about you. I’m obsessed with feeding you, with watching you eat, even wondering what you’ll wear.” Harry paced around the small basement, too nervous to look Draco in the eye. His heart was banging away in his chest like a twelve year old on a new drum set. 

“I can’t stop noticing things, like the way you wear such conservative, unattractive clothes, the way you will drop almost anything to answer your mother, the way you prefer your beef nearly raw but your fish covered with sauce. I know you prefer lemon cake to chocolate, and chocolate cake to biscuits, but if I put coconut in something you’ll always eat that first.” Harry smiled at his feet as he thought about baking biscuits specifically for Draco and watching him eat them. “I see how you like to be in charge when we’re planning, but you hang back a little when it’s time for action. I see how you treat Dincy with such respect, and how she adores you for it. I notice how you react when you’re shocked, how you straighten up your back, as though being taller will keep you safe from threats.”

Draco had straightened up his back in exactly this way a sentence or two before, and Harry noticed that now he slouched suddenly, then corrected his posture, then crossed his arms defensively. Harry felt so tenderly toward this prickly young man, so enticed by Draco’s hidden sweetness. He reached out gently to pat Draco on the forearm and when Draco let him, he let his fingers linger on the ugly yellow cloth.

“Customers prefer me to look slightly ill,” Draco blurted out. “I get far more work when I look a bit unwell, or at least unhappy. Mother thought of it, because of the war, the resentment. I didn’t like it, but she was right. It used to make me angry,” he looked at the floor, “But I guess… I’ve become so accustomed to it I just wear what I own, now, and don’t think much of them. But I hate them, when I think about it. I hate all my ugly clothes.”

Harry stared at Draco now, amazed and bothered deep in his belly. This was so unfair somehow. So small and stupid, but so unfair, as well. People would hire Draco for his brilliant work, his dedication to a problem they needed solved. But they liked him better if he looked like he was miserable and trying to hide it.

Harry clenched his fists and realized he felt an overwhelming need to protect and save this man. And he felt helpless, feeling fairly sure he had no idea how he would.

Then Harry remembered Luna’s offer, and he smiled. Back to the task at hand, and then after he had the boyfriend secured, he would work on writing his Gadfly opinions to change the world.

“I know how I feel, Draco.” Harry said earnestly. “I haven’t had a lot of romance, and I’ve had even less sex, but at night, when I climb into bed alone, I wish so fiercely that you were there with me.” Harry swallowed. Draco’s eyes were going just a bit soft now, and so Harry tried harder. He forced himself to look Draco right in the eye, despite how hard his heart was beating. “If you were, oh hell, I want to take those unflattering robes off you, Draco. I want to see you naked so much. I want to kiss you everywhere.”

Harry stopped because Draco’s eyes had gone a bit wide, and Harry couldn’t tell if it was surprise or disgust. He waited. Draco didn’t shake Harry off his arm, but he didn’t say anything, either. Harry waited. 

Draco stared into Harry’s eyes, searching intently for something. He said nothing. 

Heart pounding, mouth going dry, palms sweating, Harry waited.

“Er,” Draco said, and then he cleared his throat too loudly and ducked his pink face down into his ugly yellow collar. “Er,” he tried again. “When you, er, when you say that, that thing you said just now, about, er…”

He stopped talking, and Harry waited.

“That thing about wanting to kiss me, er, ‘all over.’ What did you mean, er, by that? Exactly?”

Harry grinned enormously. “I meant everywhere, Draco. Really, I think I honestly mean… everywhere. Your face, your neck, your feet, your tight, high, sexy little arse… _definitely_ your cock….”

Draco made a strange little strangled noise in the back of his throat. Harry waited.

Draco grabbed both of Harry’s forearms and _Apparated_ the two of them into Harry’s bedroom.

. . . . . . . . .

In the morning, Harry was the first one to wake up. He was naked, _slightly_ sore, and could see a few little love bites and bruises dotting his skin. Draco was wrapped around him, spooning him from behind, and Draco’s erection felt fantastic nestled right in the crevice of Harry’s arse. They hadn’t done _everything_ last night, but Harry had plenty of plans for later.

Suddenly Harry wrenched himself upright in horror. “The rattle!” he yelped, and leapt from the bed, grabbing a pair of sleep pants he’d discarded on the floor a few days before.

“Fuck!” Draco yelled, also newly and wrenchingly awake, and they both rushed to the basement.

When Harry got there via the stairs, he discovered that Draco had got there before him. He had, quite sensibly, _Apparated_ from somewhere upstairs.

The rattle, however, lay silent and unconcerned by their panic. It sat next to the overturned champagne bucket, in a large puddle of cool water. It was cold to the touch, like any ordinary silver object would be under such circumstances. It made no noise, and moved not at all.

Quietly, with a look of scepticism, Draco cast a spell at the rattle, then a second one.

“It’s… done,” he said. “The promise is fulfilled. Completely fulfilled.” He barked out a peal of loud, overwhelmed laughter, and Harry stared at him, and then looked at the rattle. It was once again a simple inanimate object: benign and cute. It now _was_ what it had only appeared to be when Harry had first found it in his family vault. He touched it again. Still cold. So he picked it up. He rattled it once.

In Harry’s hand, the rattle chimed out a soft, pleasing noise. It echoed once against the stone walls of Harry’s basement. Then the noise… stopped.

Harry laughed now, too. “We did it!” He exclaimed. “We finally fucking did it!”

“That we did,” Draco said in a low voice, and he moved to stand right next to Harry. Unlike Harry, Draco had rushed to the basement completely naked. Harry turned his attention to Draco. “Mm, he said appreciatively. He transferred the rattle to his other hand in order to take hold of one of Draco’s arse cheeks. He grinned at Draco, and Draco grinned back.

“You look positively sultry,” Harry told him. “Perhaps we should go upstairs.”

“I have a better idea,” Draco said. “Let’s go to Paris.”

Harry tried to raise one eyebrow. “Paris?” he asked, and Draco nodded.

“I’m ravenous,” Draco admitted. “Paris is a great place to have breakfast. Especially for a couple of fine gentlemen like ourselves, who would rather enjoy one another’s _sterling_ company,” he winked and Harry laughed, “than the attentions of a scandal starved British wizarding press corps.”

“Shower with me first and you’re on,” Harry agreed, and they grinned toothily at one another.

 

The End.


End file.
